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KIMBALL,  Richard  Burleigh,  author  and 
lawyer,  was  born  at  Plainfield,  Sullivan  co.,  N.  H., 
Oct.  11,  1816,  second  son  of  Richard  and  Mary 
(Marsh)  Kimball.  His  parents  were  descended  from 
the  Puritan  fathers.  He  was  seventh  in  descent 
from  Richard  Kimball,  of  Ipswich,  England,  who 
landed  at  Boston  in  1634.  His  grandfather,  Richard 
Kimball,  was  married  to  Abigail  Huntington,  only 
sister  of  Samuel  Huntiugton,  president  of  the  first 
Continental  congress,  one  of  the  signers  of  the  Dec- 
laration of  Independence,  and  first  state  governor  of 
Connecticut.  His  maternal  great-grandfather,  Isaac 
Marsh,  received  from  the  crown  a  grant  of  100  acres 
of  land  in  White  river  valley,  Vt.,  and  became  the 
first  white  settler  in  that  region,  where  descendants 
still  own  the  lands  he  opened  to  cultivation.  The 
Kimballs  settled  in  Lebanon,  N.H., 
in  1802,  and  here  Richard  Burleigh 
passed  his  early  childhood.  When 
only  eleven  years  of  age  he  passed 
his  examination  for  admission  to 
Dartmouth  College,  but  on  account 
of  his  extreme  youth  was  obliged 
to  wait  two  years.  He  received  his 
degree  at  the  age  of  seventeen, 
being  graduated  among  the  first 
six  of  his  class;  studied  law,  and 
was  admitted  to  the  bar  at  Water- 
ford,  N.  Y.,  in  1836,  when  only 
nineteen  years  old.  He  went  to 
Paris  to  continue  his  studies,  and 
on  his  return  began  the  practice  of 
law  in  Waterford.  He  was  made 
a  master  in  chancery  shortly  be- 
fore he  attained  his  majority.  In 
1840  he  removed  to  New  York 
city,  and  continued  in  the  active  practice  of  his 
profession  until  fifteen  years  before  his  death, 
when  he  retired,  devoting  his  time  thenceforth 
chiefly  to  writing.  It  was  in  the  field  of  letters  that 
Dr.  Kimball  gained  his  chief  reputation.  He  made 
his  debut  as  an  author  in  1850  in  the  then  famous 
"Knickerbocker  Magazine."  His  first  book  was  a 
metaphysical  novel,  "St.  Leger;  or,  The  Threads  of 
Life  "  (1850).  This  book  was  at  once  translated  into 
the  French  and  Dutch  languages,  and  gave  its 
writer  a  commanding  rank  among  American  authors. 
It  was  followed  by  "Cuba  and  the  Cubans,"  in  the 
same  year;  "Romance  of  Student  Life  Abroad" 
(1857);  "Undercurrents  of  Wall  Street"  (1861)- 
"Was  He  Successful?"  (1863);  "In  the  Tropics" 
(1863);  "The  Prince  of  Kashna"  (1865);  "Henry 
Powers,  anker"  (1868);  "Lectures  before  the 
New  York  Law  Institute";  "To-day  in  New 
York"  (1870),  and  "Stories  of  Exceptional  Life" 
(1887).  In  1873  he  received  the  degree  of  LL.D. 
from  Dartmouth.  Besides  the  works  mentioned,  he 
wrote  many  short  stories,  letters  of  travel  and  essavs 
on  biographical,  historical  and  financial  subjects. 
Dr.  Kimball  was  a  great  traveler.  He  crossed  the 
ocean  no  less  than  thirty  times,  and  much  of  his 
early  life  was  spent  in  Europe.  His  memory  was 
wonderfully  acute,  his  style  crisp  and  clear.  Some 
reminiscences  of  authors  and  statesman,  who  were 


intimate  friends,  are  given  in  a  volume  entitled, 
"Half  a  Century  of  Recollections,"  published  in 
1893.  He  was  a  zealous  Christian  and  a  profound 
student  of  the  Bible  and  was  a  member  of  the  Presby- 
terian church.  Dr.  Kimball  was  a  gentleman  of  the 
old  school:  easy  of  access,  a  delightful  raconteur  and 
possessed  to  the  last  days  of  his  life  to  a  marvelous 
degree  the  vigor  and  freshness  of  youth.  He  foi'rrled 
the  town  of  Kimball,  Tex.,  and  built  part  of  f'JTrlrst 
railroad  laid  in  that  state.  The  road  rarTf  rotn  Galves- 
ton  to  Houston.  He  served  as  its  president  from  1854 
until  1860,  when  the  civil  war  forced  him  to  withdraw. 
Dr.  Kimball  was  married  in  New  York"  city,  April 
17,  1844,  to  Julia  Caroline,  daughter  of  Dr.  David 
and  Cornelia  (Adams)  Tomlinson.  Her  father  was 
an  eminent  physician;  her  mother  a  granddaughter 
of  Chief-Justice  Andrew  Adams,  of  Connecticut. 
They  had  two  sons  and  three  daughters.  Dr.  Kim- 
Jmll  died  in  New  York  city,  Dec.  28,  1892. 


of  Staritait  Lf  ife 


STUDENTS 


ABROAD. 


BY 


KICHAKD    B.    KIMBALL, 

AUTHOR  OP   "ST.  LKGEB,"   "  UNDERCURRENTS1' ETO. 


NEW    YORK. 

G.   P.    PUTNAM,    532    BROADWAY. 
1862. 


Entered  According  to  Act  ot  Uongrem,  in  the  year  1853, 

Br  RICHARD  B.  KI.MBAI.I.. 
in  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  lor  Die  Southern  District  of  Ne 


THE  Ancient  Art  rigorously  separates  things  which  are 
dissimilar;  the  ROMANTIC  delights  in  indissoluble  mixtures, 
all  contrarieties:  nature  and  art,  poetry  and  prose,  serious- 
ness and  mirth,  recollection  and  anticipation,  spirituality  and 
sensuality,  terrestrial  and  celestial,  life  and  death,  are  hv  it 
blended  together  in  the  most  intimate  combination. 

The  Ancient  Art  is  an  harmonious  promulgation  of  the 
permanently  established  legislation  of  a  world  submitted  to 
a  beautiful  order.  The  ROMANTIC  is  the  expression  of  the 
secret  attraction  to  Chaos  which  lies  concealed  in  the  very 
bosom  of  the  ordered  Universe,  and  is  perpetually  striving 
after  new  and  marvellous  births. 

The  former  is  more  simple,  clear,  and  like  to  nature  in 
the  self-existent  perfection  of  her  separate  works;  the  latter, 
notwithstanding  its  fragmentary  appearance,  approaches  more 
to  the  secret  of  the  Universe.  For  Conception  can  only 
comprise  each  object  separately,  but  nothing  in  truth  can 
ever  exist  separately  and  by  itself;  Feeling  perceives  all  in 
all  at  one  and  the  same  time.— A.  W.  VON  SCHLEGEL. 


461103 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER   I. 

r/o» 

A  first  adventure. — Calais. — A  new  acquaintance. — Mr.  Philip 
Belcher. — His  theory  of  travel. — He  proffers  good  advice. — 
He  gives  an  account  of  himself. — Story  of  Louis  Herbois. — 
New  visions. — New  prospects. — New  anticipations.  .  .  17 


CHAPTER    II. 

A  surprise. — -A.  discussion. — The  diligence. — Capitaine  Duclos. 
— Entertaining  women. — Beautiful  hamlets. — Fantastic  grave- 
yards.— Images  of  the  Virgin. — Signs  over  the  different 
Hotels. — Donkeys. — Dinner  en  route. — Partridge  recites  poetry. 
— Scene  at  the  Inn. — The  bougies. — Partridge  turns  sym- 
pathizer.— Hotel  Sauvage. — Hotel  dea  Gentilhommes. — Wo 


xii  CONTENTS. 

F  AGB 

enter  Paris.— We  look  about.— Visit  to  the  Student's  Quarter. 
— Monsieur  Battz. — The  Mademoiselle  Battz.— Our  new  set. — 
"  Walking"  the  hospital.— The  young  English  doctor.— His 
peculiarities. — Man  and  woman  discussed 58 


CHAPTER   III. 

Clements  illustrates. — Students  in  Paris. — Students  in  Germany. 
— The  distinction. — Habits  of  the  former. — The  Story  of 
Ludwig  Bernhardi 76 


CHAPTER   IV. 

Rambles  over  Paris. — Charbon  and  fagot  venders. — Jacques 
Tourneau. — The  gardens. — Hotel  dea  Invalides. — Old  soldier 
with  two  wooden  legs. — The  chapel. — Old  soldiers  at  prayers. 
— The  melancholy  officer. — Light  and  shadow. — Incident  in 
the  chapel. — Children  playing. — Little  Annie. — Her  grand- 
mother.— French  delicacy. — An  affecting  scene.  .  .  .  102 


CHAPTER   V. 

Students'  nonsense. — After  dinner. — Our  company. — Daloney. — 
Franz  Vor.  Herberg. — Jacob  Wahlen. — The  two  Englishmen. 
— Vincent. — A  good  shot. — The  picture  Franz  cannot  paint. — 
Putting  two  things  together. — The  new  hat. — The  juggler. — A 
dangerous  suggestion. — National  characteristics. — We  visit 


CONTENTS.  xiii 

FAOB 

an  artist's  room. — Its  appearance. — The  wrong  painting. 
— The  whole  party  struck  with  horror. — Wo  beg  for  an  ex- 
planation  Ill 


CHAPTER    VI. 

Life  not  a  particular  form  of  body,  but  body  a  particular  form  of 
life. — Story  of  the  Terrible  Picture. — Vincent  feels  unsettled. 
— Hia  invitation. —  Champagne. — Pipes. — Meerschaums  and 
segars  in  requisition 121 


CHAPTER   VII. 

Vincent  proposes  to  tell  a  story. — He  makes  an  inquiry  in  ad- 
vance.— It  is  answered. — He  requests  the  company  not  to  be 
impertinent. — He  tells  the  story  of  the  Water-carrier. — The 
company  break  up  in  fine  spirits. — Nobody  thinks  of  the 
terrible  picture  , 13S 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

Mornings  at  la  Morgue. — Melancholy  sights. — The  pale  woman. — 
Young  girls. — Young  men. — The  little  child  in  search  of 
"  Mamma." — The  old  man. — Leave  Paris. — Return  in  the  sum- 
mer.— Jardin  des  Plants. — Partridge  proposes  a  remarkable 
enterprise. — We  attend  at  the  rendezvous. — The  strange  ap- 


xiv  CONTENTS. 

MM 

pearance. — An  hour  of  suspense. — Partridge  explains. — Story 

of  the  Fair  Mystery 173 


CHAPTER   IX. 

Changes. — The  rue  Copeau  abandoned. — A  haunted  house. — The 
Italian. — He  refuses  to  enlighten  us. — Vincent  reads  a  letter. 
— A  melancholy  Jacquos. — An.  account  of  New  York  society. 
— The  Italian  discourses  about  physicians. — He  will  go  to 
America. — He  tells  a  strange  story  of  a  dead  man  on  the 
Boulevard. — The  dispersion.  .......  205 


CHAPTER   X. 

New  quarters. — Franz  Von  Herberg. — Rue  de  la  Chaussee  d'Autiu. 
— Our  opposite  neighbours. — The  backgammon  players. — Tha 
two  grisettes. — Mother  and  idiot  son. — Shopkeeper's  family. 
—People  of  fashion. — French  economy. — What  Franz  tried 
to  paint. — Our  Lady  of  Lorette. — Old  mendicant. — His  death. 
— A  serious  discussion. — Franz  is  in  doubt. — Champaux's.  .  216 


CHAPTER    XI. 

The  cafe.— A  character. — The  garden  is  puzzled. — He  wears  a 
permanent  shrug. — He  is  in  despair. — We  proceed  to  his 
assistance  and  discover  an  acquaintance. — Wilcox  gives  an 
acooujit  of  his  efforts  to  keep  from  starving. — New  method 


CONTENTS.  xv 

MM 

of  dining. — Wilcox  on  his  travels. — He  reaches  Lyons. — He 
attempts  to  go  to  Marseilles. — He  gets  into  trouble,  and  then 
into  prison. — Meets  with  fresh  misfortunes. — Is  at  last  sot  at 
liberty. — A  funeral  scene. — Death. — Mourners. — The  artificial 
and  the  natural.  .  .  221 


CHAPTER   XII- 

Abxost  at  the  end. — We  tire  of  fashionable  quarters. — Cartridge 
returns. — Wo  prepare  to  leave  Paris. — Franz's  new  paintitg. 
— Partridge  is  inquisitive. — The  story  is  demanded. — It  u 
insisted  on. — It  is  told. — Story  of  Marie  Laforet.  .  .  .  238 


CHAPTER   XIII. 

Preface  for  conclusion. — Author  and  literary  friend. — A  mistake 
which  cannot  be  corrected. — Publisher  shakos  his  head. — A 
compromise 258 


ROMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE  ABROAD, 


CHAPTER  I. 

A      FIRST      ADVENTURE. 

WE  intended — Partridge  and  myself — to  go  directly 
from  Liverpool  to  Paris.  It  is  what  most  youth  decide  to 
do  when  they  find  themselves  for  the  first  time  on  European 
soil.  But  we  reconsidered  the  matter.  After  enjoying 
with  a  keen  relish  the  comforts  of  an  English  inn  for 
twenty -four  hours,  we  concluded  to  make  a  tour  of  Great 
Britain  and  Ireland,  before  settling  down  to  study. 

This  was  several  years  ago.  It  is  hardly  prudent  to  count 
back  how  many.  On  second  thoughts,  I  resolve  to  do  it :  I 
now  say,  with  accuracy,  it  was  sixteen  years. 

At^that  period  a  voyage  across  the  Atlantic  was  a  thing 
to  be  remembered  for  a  life-time.  Lasting  friendships 
were  formed,  and  often  what  were  more  significant  than 
friendships;  for  many  were  the  vows  to  which  Neptune 


18       ROMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

was  the   witness,  and   frequent  their  interchange,  on  the 
decks  of  our  magnificent  packet-ships,  those  fine  nights, 


" While  overhead  the  moon 

Sits  arbitress,  and  nearer  to  the  earth 
Wheels  her  pale  course " 

Jn  short,  it  was  like  a  charming  visit  of  a  month  at  the 
mansion  of  some  hospitable  friend,  whose  abode  is  filled 
with  a  large  and  congenial  company.  How  all  this  is 
changed !  The  idea  of  wooing  and  winning  a  lovely  maiden 
on  board  of  a  steamer,  while  the  engines,  impelled  by 

"  Tartarean  sulphur  and  strange  fire," 

beat  time  to  your  protestations  with  their  clack — clatter — 
clank!  Alas,  the  friendly  mansion  is  converted  into  a 
noisy  hotel,  and  the  visit  of  a  month  reduced  to  a  stay  of 
ten  days. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  ocean,  the  mail-coach  and 
diligence  were  in  their  glory,  while  at  almost  every  turn  of 
the  road  one  encountered  the  post-chaise  or  caleche  of  the 
private  traveller.  I  mention  this  by  way  of  parenthesis,  and 
proceed  to  remark  that,  after  making  our  proposed  excur- 
sion through  England,  Ireland,  and  Scotland,  and  as  we 
were  about  to  cross  the  Channel  from  Dover,  my  com- 
panion missed  his  portmanteau  and  was  obliged  to  go  back 
to  London  in  search  of  it ;  while  I,  eager  to  get  into  France, 
passed  over  to  Calais,  promising  to  wait  for  him  there. 


A    FIRST    ADVENTURE.  11) 

I  shall  give  no  account  of  my  friend's  exploits  in  pursuit 
of  his  lost  luggage — I  shall  not  even  tell  whether  he  found 
it  or  not.  I  am  to  speak  of  this,  my  first  adventure  into 
France,  and  how  I  fared  at  Calais.  The  landing  and  getting 
through  the  custom-house,  the  examination  of  passports  and 
so  forth,  diverted  me  for  a  few  hours.  The  aspect  of  every 
thing  around — to  me  new  and  peculiar — made  the  following 
day  pass  cheerfully  enough.  On  the  third,  I  attempted  a 
drive  on  the  road  to  St.  Omer,  and  returned  covered  with 
dust,  without  seeing  a  single  object  to  interest  me.  It  was 
now  with  difficulty  that  I  could  occupy  the  time.  As  a  last 
resource,  I  took  to  inspecting  the  different  faces  which  daily 
presented  themselves  at  the  Hotel  de  Meurice,  where  one 
could  see  a  great  variety  of  features,  belonging  to  almost 
every  country,  age,  sex,  and  condition.  But  I  tired  of  this 
presently,  so  that  when  the  fifth  day  brought  with  it  one  of 
those  disagreeable  storms  peculiar  to  the  coast — half  drizzle, 
half  sleet  and  rain — it  found  me  weary  of  the  amusement 
of  attending  on  new  arrivals  and  departures,  and  of  the 
nameless  petty  doings  by  which  time,  in  a  bustling  hotel,  is 
attempted  to  be  frittered  away.  A  misty,  dreary,  damp, 
offensive  day !  An  out-and-out  tempest,  a  thorough  right 
down  drenching  rain,  would  have  been  in  agreeable  contrast 
with  the  previous  hot,  dusty,  sunny  weather ;  but  this — it 
seemed  absolutely  intolerable !  I  was,  besides,  in  no  par- 
ticular condition  to  be  pleased.  I  was  neither  setting  out 


20      ROMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

upon  a  tour,  nor  returning  from  one,  but  had  been  inter- 
rupted in  my  progress  and  forced,  -with  loss  of  my  compan- 
ion, to  a  stand-still  at  this  most  uninteresting  spot.  I  came 
down,  and  with  a  bad  grace,  to  order  breakfast. 

"  Gallon,  Cafe — oeufs  a  la  coque — biftek — rotie — vite !" 
I  was  about  repeating  this  in  a  louder  tone,  for  the  waiter 
seemed  engrossed  with  something  more  important  than  at- 
tending to  my  wants,  when  I  heard  a  quiet  voice  behind 
me — 

"  Garp on,  Cafe — oeufs  a  la  coque — biftek — rotie — vite !" 
I  turned  angrily  upon  the  speaker,  doubtful  of  the  design 
of  this  repetition  of  my  order. 

The  reader  will  perceive  that  my  breakfast  was  a  sub- 
stantial one ;  indeed,  such  a  breakfast  as  an  American,  who 
had  not  so  far  lost  himself  in  "  European  society"  as  to  for- 
get his  appetite,  would  be  very  likely  to  call  for.  The  idea 
that  I  was  watched,  doubtless  made  me  a  little  suspicious, 
or  sensitive,  or  irritable ;  at  any  rate,  I  turned,  as  I  have 
said,  angrily  upon  the  speaker.  He  was  a  slightly  made, 
elderly  man,  at  least  fifty,  with  pleasant  features,  a  calm 
appearance,  and  quiet  manners — a  person  evidently  at  home 
with  the  world.  I  recollected  at  the  same  moment,  that 
the  stranger  had  been  at  the  hotel  ever  since  my  arrival 
there,  although  I  had  not,  from  his  unobtrusive  habit,  given 
him  more  than  a  passing  notice.  His  appearance  at  once 
dispelled  the  frown  which  I  had  brought  to  bear  upon  him ; 


A   FIRST    ADVENTURE.  21 

but  when  he  answered  my  stare  with  a  respectful  yet  half 
familiar  bow,  I  could  have  sworn  that  it  came  from  an  old 
acquaintance.  I  need  not  say  that  I  returned  the  salutation 
cordially.  At  the  same  time  my  new  friend  rose,  came 
towards  me,  and  held  out  his  hand. 

"  I  am  quite  sure,"  he  said,  "  that  you  are  an  American 
— perhaps  a  New  Englander ;  I  am  both ;  why,  then,  should 
not  countrymen  beguile  an  unpleasant  day  in  company  1 
Excuse  me — I  did  hear  your  order  just  now,  and  as  it  suited 
my  own  taste,  I  proposed  to  myself  that  we  should  break- 
fast together; — we  may  trust  to  Francois;  he  has  been 
here,  to  my  knowledge,  more  than  twenty  years,  and  pleases 
every  body." 

I  pressed  the  hand  of  my  new  acquaintance — acknowl- 
edged myself  to  be  from  New  Hampshire — gave  my  name, 
and  received  in  return — "  Philip  Belcher." 

We  sat  down  to  the  same  table,  and  very  soon  Francois 
appeared  with  a  well-served  breakfast. 

"  Pray,"  said  I,  "  what  can  one  do  to  relieve  the  monot- 
ony of  this  intolerable  place  ?  If  the  country  about  were 
agreeable — nay,  if  it  were  bearable !  but  as  it  is,  I  repeat, 
what  is  to  be  done  ?" 

"  Done  !"  said  Mr.  Belcher,  rather  sharply,  "  a  hundred 
things !  Put  on  your  Mackintosh  and  overshoes ;  coma 
witli  me  to  the  Courtgain,  and  see  the  fishermen  putting  to 
sea,  their  boats  towed  out  by  their  wives  and  daughters ;  a 


!S2       ROMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

sight,  I  will  be  bound,  you  have  not  beheld,  although  you 
may  have  coursed  Europe  over,  and  been  at  Calais  half  a 
dozen  times." 

Mr.  Belcher  proceeded  in  this  vein,  detailing  many 
things  that  could  be  seen  to  advantage  even  in  Calais ;  but 
as  he  suggested  nothing  which  interested  me  so  much  as  he 
himself  did,  I  had  the  boldness  to  tell  him  so,  and  that  my 
curiosity  was  excited  to  know  more  of  him. 

"There  is  nothing  in  my  history  that  can  amuse  a 
stranger ;  indeed,  it  is  without  incident  or  marvel.  To  be 
sure,  I  am  alone  in  the  world,  but  I  have  never  been  afflicted 
or  suffered  misfortune,  within  my  recollection.  My  parents 
died  when  I  was  very  young ;  my  father  and  mother  were 
both  only  children  ;  a  small  property  which  the  former  left 
was  carefully  invested,  and  faithfully  nursed  during  my 
minority,  by  a  scrupulous  and  honest  attorney,  in  no  way 
connected  with  us,  but  whom  my  father  named  as  executor 
in  his  will,  and  my  guardian.  Ill  health  prevented  my  get- 
ting on  at  school.  I  cannot  say  that  I  was  an  invalid,  but 
my  constitution  was  delicate  and  my  temperament  nervous. 
I  tried  to  make  some  progress  in  the  study  of  a  profession, 
under  my  excellent  guardian,  but  was  forced  to  give  it  up 
as  too  trying  to  my  nerves.  The  excitement  of  a  court- 
room I  could  not  endure  for  a  day,  much  less  for  a  lifetime. 
Before  I  was  twenty -five,  my  income  had  so  much  increased 
that  I  could  afford  to  travel.  I  have  gained  in  this  way  my 


A   FIRST   ADVENTURE.  23 

health,  which,  however,  would  become  impaired  should  I  re- 
turn to  a  sedentary  life ;  so,  as  a  matter  of  necessity,  I  have 
wandered  about  the  world.  You  see,  my  story  is  soon 
told." 

I  found  Mr.  Belcher  was  not  in  the  habit  of  talking 
about  himself,  and  I  liked  him  the  better  for  it.  Without 
pressing  for  a  more  particular  account,  I  led  the  conversa- 
tion to  treat  of  the  different  countries  he  had  visited,  refer- 
ring, by  the  way,  to  some  principal  objects  of  attraction. 
Here  I  touched  an  idiosyncrasy  of  my  new  acquaintance. 

"  I  never  formed,"  he  said,  "  any  distinct '  plan'  of  travel. 
I  never  '  did'  Paris  in  eight  days,  nor  the  gallery  of  the 
Louvre  in  half  an  hour,  as  they  have  been  done  by  an  ac- 
quaintance. I  never  opened  a  guide-book  in  my  life :  I  never 
employed  a  commissioner -e,  a  valet,  a  courier,  a  cicerone,  or  a 
dragoman.  My  pleasure  has  been  to  let  the  remarkable, 
the  beautiful,  the  interesting,  burst  upon  me  without  in. 
troduction,  and  I  have  found  my  account  in  it.  I  have 
quitted  the  Val  d'Arno,  turned  off  from  the  Lake  of  Como, 
passed  to  the  other  side  of  Lake  Leman  and  its  romantic 
castles,  pursuing  my  way,  regardless  of  these  well-worn 
attractions,  while  I  beheld  rarer — at  least  less  familiar 
scenes,  and  enjoyed  with  zest  what  was  fresh  and  unhack- 
neyed. No  everlasting  '  route' — no  mercenary  and  dishon- 
est landlords — no  troops  of  travellers,  travelling  that  they 
may  become  '  travelled' — but,  in  place  of  all  this,  I  saw 


24       ROMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

every  thing  naturally — the  country  in  its  simplicity — the 
inhabitants  in  their  simplicity — while,  I  trust,  I  have  pre- 
served my  own  simplicity.  Indeed,  I  rather  prefer  what 
your  tourist  calls  an  '  uninteresting  region.' " 

"  For  that  reason,"  I  remarked,  pleasantly,  "  you  have 
come  here  to  Calais  to  spend  a  few  weeks ;  you  must  enjoy 
the  barren  sand-plain  which  extends  all  the  way  from  this 
to  St.  Omer.  How  picturesque  are  those  pollards  scattered 
along  the  road,  with  here  and  there  a  superannuated  old 
windmill,  looking  like  an  ogre  with  three  arms  and  no 
legs !  then,  to  relieve  the  dreariness  of  the  place,  you  have 
multitudes  of  miserable  cabins,  grouped  into  more  miser- 
able villages,  to  say  nothing  of  the  chateaux  of  dingy  reel, 
in  which  painters  of  the  brick-dust  school  so  much  delight. 
Ideally,  Mr.  Belcher,  you  will  have  a  capital  field  here !" 

My  new  acquaintance  shook  his  head  a  little  seriously, 
as  if  deprecating  further  pleasantry. 

"  You  are  like  the  rest  of  them,  I  fear,"  he  remarked, 
"a  surface  traveller;  at  least  you  will  force  me  to  believe 
so  if  you  go  on  in  this  way.  To  me  there  is  no  place 
unworthy  of  observation — no  spot  which  does  not  challenge 
my  attention.  You  are  young,  and  have  much  before  you. 
Take  the  advice  of  an  old  and,  I  trust,  not  an  ill-natured 
traveller.  Preserve  the  romantic  in  your  heart,  and  you 
will  never  miss  it  by  the  wayside,  no  matter  what  you 
encounter,  or  how  dull  and  disagreeable  it  may  seem  to 


A   FIRST  ADVENTURE.  25 

another.  But  come,"  he  continued,  "  I  will  not  scold  you ; 
the  storm  threatens  to  last  the  morning ;  if  you  wish,  I  will 
help  to  make  away  with  part  of  it,  by  recounting  a  little 
adventure  which  happened  to  me  hard  by  those  very  pol- 
lards which  you  are  pleased  to  abuse  so  freely." 

It  is  needless  to  add  that  I  joyfully  assented  to  the  pro- 
posal, and  was  soon  seated  in  Mr.  Belcher's  room  before  a 
cheerful  fire — for  he  had  managed  even  in  Calais  to  procure 
one — when  he  commenced  as  follows : 

"I  think  it  was  during  the  first  season  I  was  on  the 
Continent  that  I  visited  St.  Omer.  After  spending  a  day 
or  two  in  that  place,  I  concluded  to  walk  to  Calais,  and  set 
out  one  morning  accordingly. 

"  The  weather  was  fine ;  but  after  I  had  been  a  few  hours 
on  the  road,  the  wind  began  to  blow  directly  in  my  face, 
and  soon  enveloped  me  in  a  cloud  of  sand  from  which  there 
seemed  no  escape,  and  which  threatened  actually  to  suffo- 
cate me.  To  avoid  this  I  left  the  highway,  but  keeping 
what  I  supposed  to  be  in  the  general  direction  of  the  road, 
I  struck  out  into  the  adjacent  fields.  There  was  nothing  for 
a  considerable  distance  to  repay  me  for  this  detour,  except 
that  I  was  thus  rid  of  the  sand.  The  country  was  barren 
and  uninviting,  the  cottages  little  better  than  hovels,  and 
the  whole  scene  distasteful.  But  I  pushed  on,  not  a  whit  dis 
coin-aged;  indeed,  my  spirits  rose  as  the  prospect  darkened, 

and  like  a  valiant  general  invading  a  country  fcr  the  pur- 
2 


26  ROMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

pose  of  conquering  a  peace,  I  resolved  in  some  way  to  force 
an  adventure  before  I  reached  Calais.  I  trudged  along  for 
hours,  stopping  occasionally  for  a  draught  of  sour  wine  and 
a  bit  of  bread.  I  made  no  inquiry  about  the  main  road,  for 
I  preferred  to  know  nothing  of  it.  In  this  way  I  proceeded, 
until  it  was  almost  night,  when  I  spied,  some  half  a  mile 
distant,  a  cluster  of  trees  surrounding  a  small  tenement.  I 
turned  at  once  toward  the  spot,  and  coming  up  to  it,  found 
a  cottage  not  differing  in  size  or  structure  from  those  I  had 
seen  on  the  way,  except  that  it  appeared  even  more  anti- 
quated. It  was,  however,  in  perfect  repair,  and  finely 
shaded  by  a  variety  of  handsome  trees,  and  flanked  on  one 
side  by  a  neat  garden.  The  door  stood  open  and  I  en- 
tered. There  was  no  one  in  the  room.  I  called,  but  re- 
ceived no  answer.  I  strayed  out  into  the  garden  and  walked 
through  it.  At  the  lower  end  was  a  small  enclosure  cov- 
ered over  at  the  top  as  if  to  protect  it  from  the  weather, 
and  fenced  on  each  side  with  opcii  wire-work,  looking 
through  vh>'ch,  I  beheld  a  small  grave,  overspread  with 
mosses,  and  h-trewed  with  fresh-gathered  white  flowers. 
It  bore  no  name  or  inscriptron,  except  the  following  sim- 
ple but  pathetic  line  • 

'Enfant  cherie,  avec  toi  mes  beaux  jours  sont  pazs6s.— I79i  ' 

Surprised  by  the  appearance  of  fresh  Cowers  upon  a  tomb 
which  had  been  so  long  closed  over  its  occupant,  I  tin-red, 


A  FIRST  ADVENTURE.  27 

hoping  to  find  some  explanation  of  the  mystery  in  what  I 
might  see  elsewhere.  But  there  was  nothing  near  to  at- 
tract one's  attention,  nor  was  any  person  within  sight. 

"  After  taking  a  glance  around,  I  went  back  to  the  cottage, 
and  walking  in,  sat  down  to  wait  the  arrival  of  the  occu- 
pants. In  a  few  minutes,  I  heard  voices  from  the  side  of 
the  house  opposite  the  garden,  and  soon  two  persons,  of  the 
peasant  class,  evidently  husband  and  wife,  came  in.  The 
man  was  strong  and  robust,  with  the  erect  form  and  mar- 
tial appearance  acquired  only  by  military  service,  and 
which  the  weight  of  nearly  sixty  years  had  not  seemed 
to  impair.  His  countenance  was  frank  and  manly,  and 
his  step  firm.  The  woman  appeared  a  few  years  younger, 
while  the  air  of  happy  contentment  which  beamed  in  her 
face,  put  the  ordinary  encroachments  of  time  at  defiance. 
Altogether,  I  had  never  seen  a  couple  so  fitted  to  attract 
observation  and  interest.  They  both  stopped  short  on  see- 
ing me. 

"  I  hastened  to  explain  my  situation,  as  that  of  a 
belated  traveller,  attracted  by  the  sight  of  the  cottage ; 
and  told  them  I  was  both  hungry  and  tired,  and  desirous 
of  the  hospitality  of  their  roof.  I  was  made  welcome  ai 
once. 

"  Louis  Herbois,  for  that  was  his  name,  gave  me  a  bluff, 
soldierly  greeting,  while  Agathe,  his  wife,  smiled  her  ac- 
quiescence. Supper  was  soon  laid ;  I  ate  with  a  sharpened 


28       ROMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

appetite,  which  evidently  charmed  my  host,  who  encour- 
aged me  at  intervals,  as  I  began  to  flag. 

"  Supper  concluded,  I  was  glad  to  accept  the  offer  of  a 
bed,  for  I  was  exhausted  with  fatigue. 

"  I  had  been  so  engrossed  with  the  repast,  that  curiosity 
was  for  the  time  suspended,  and  it  was  not  again  in  action 
until  I  had  said  good-night  to  my  entertainers,  and  found 
myself  in  the  room  where  I  was  to  sleep.  This  was  an 
apartment  of  moderate  size ;  the  furniture  was  old  and 
common,  bi't  neither  dilapidated  nor  out  of  order;  the 
bed  was  neatly  covered ;  around  the  room  were  scattered 
several  books  of  interest,  and  in  one  corner  was  a  neat 
writing-desk,  of  antiquated  appearance,  with  silver  mount- 
ing, and  handsomely  inlaid ;  while  some  small  articles  of 
considerable  value  placed  on  a  table  in  another  corner,  in- 
dicated at  least  occasional  denizens  very  different  from  the 
peaaant  and  his  wife.  Yet  this  could  not  be  a  rural  resort 
for  any  family  belonging  to  the  town.  There  were  but 
two  other  apartments  in  the  house,  and  these  were  occu- 
pied.  Nevertheless,  I  reasoned,  these  things  can  never 
have  been  brought  here  by  the  worthy  people  I  have  en- 
countered ;  and  then — the  little  grave  in  the  garden  1  who 
has  watched  the  tomb  for  so  many  years,  preserving  the  moss 
so  green  and  the  flowers  so  fresh — cherishing  an  affection 
which  has  triumphed  over  time1?  How  intense,  how  sa- 
cred, how  strange  mus':  be  such  devotion !  I  decided  that 


A  FIRST   ADVENTURE.  29 

some  persons  besides  those  I  had  seen  -were  concerned,  in 
some  way,  in  the  history  of  the  little  dwelling,  and  with  this 
conclusion  I  retired ;  and  so,  being  fatigued  by  my  day's 
travel,  I  soon  fell  asleep. 

"  I  awoke  about  sunrise.  Going  to  the  window,  I  put 
aside  the  curtain,  and  looked  out  into  the  garden.  Louis 
Herbois  and  his  wife  were  there,  renewing  the  garlands 
with  fresh  flowers,  and  watering  the  moss  which  was  spread 
over  the  grave.  It  must  be  their  own  child,  thought  I,  and 
yet — no — I  will  step  out  and  ask  them,  and  put  an  end  to 
the  mystery.  I  met  the  good  people  coming  in :  they  in- 
quired if  I  had  rested  well,  and  said  that  breakfast  would 
soon  be  ready.  '  You  do  not  forget  your  little  one,'  I  said 
to  the  old  fellow,  at  the  same  time  pointing  towards  the 
enclosure.  'Monsieur  mistakes,'  replied  he,  crossing  him- 
self devoutly.  '  Some  dear  friend,  I  suppose  V  He  looked 
at  me  earnestly :  '  On  voit  bien,  Monsieur,  que  vous  *tes  un 
homme  comme  il  faut.  After  you  have  breakfasted,  you 
shall  hear  the  story.  '  Ah,  there  is,  then,  a  story,'  said  I 
to  myself,  as  I  followed  Louis  Herbois  into  the  cottage, 
where  Agathe  had  preceded  us,  and  sat  down  to  an  excel- 
lent breakfast.  When  it  was  concluded  I  asked  for  the 
promised  narration.  '  Let  me  see,'  said  Louis,  '  Agathe, 
how  long  have  we  been  married  ?'  Agathe,  matron  as  she 
was,  actually  blushed  at  the  question,  yet  answered  readily, 
without  stopping  to  compute  the  time.  'Yes — true — very 


30  ROMANCE   OF  STUDENT   LIFE. 

well ;'  resumed  Louis.  '  You  must  know,  Monsieur,  that 
my  father  was  a  soldier,  and  enrolled  me,  at  an  early  age, 
in  the  same  company  with  himself.  Having  been  detailed, 
soon  after,  on  service  to  one  Of  the  provinces,  I  was  so 
severely  wounded  that  I  was  thought  to  be  permanently 
unfitted  for  duty,  and  was  honourably  dismissed  with  a  life 
pension.  Owing  to  the  care  and  skill  of  a  famous  surgeon 
who  attended  me,  and  whom  I  was  fortunate  enough  to 
interest,  I  was  at  last  cured  of  my  wounds,  and  very  soon 
after  I  wandered  away  here,  for  no  better  reason,  I  believe, 
than  that  Agathe  was  in  the  neighbourhood ;  for  we  had 
known  each  other  from  the  time  we  were  children.  Very 
soon  she  and  I  were  married,  and  we  took  this  little  place, 
and  were  as  blessed  as  possible. 

" '  In  the  mean  time,  great  changes  were  going  on  at 
Paris.  The  revolution  had  begun,  and  soon  swept  every 
thing  before  it.  But  it  did  not  matter  with  us.  We  rose 
with  the  birds,  and  went  to  rest  with  the  sun,  and  no  two 
could  have  been  happier :  am  I  not  right,  Agathe  V  The 
old  lady  put  her  hand  affectionately  upon  the  shoulder 
of  her  husband,  but  said  nothing.  'And  we  have  never 
ceased  being  happy,  we  are  always  happy ;  are  we  not, 
Agathe?'  The  tears  stood  in  Agathe's  eyes,  and  Louis 
Herbois  went  on.  'Well,  the  revolution  was  nothing  to 
me ;  they  were  mad  with  it,  and  killed  the  king,  and  slew 
each  other,  until  our  dear  Paris  became  a  bedlam — still,  as 


A   FIRST  ADVENTURE.  31 

I  said,  it  was  nothing  to  me.  To  be  sure,  I  went  occasion- 
ally  to  Calais,  where  I  heard  a  new  language  in  every 
body's  mouth,  and  much  talk  of  Les  hommes  suspects,  Man- 
dats  (Parrels,  with  shouts  of  A  bas  les  aristocrates,  and  Vive 
la  Republique — but  I  did  not  trouble  myself  about  any  of 
it ;  Agathe  and  I  worked  together  in  the  field,  and  in  the 
garden,  and  in  the  house — always  together — always  happy. 
One  morning  we  went  out  to  prune  our  vines ;  the  door  of 
the  house  was  open,  just  as  you  found  it  yesterday ;  why 
should  we  ever  shut  the  door  7  we  were  honest,  and  feared 
nobody ;  we  stood — Agathe  here  on  this  side  holding  the 
vine ;  I,  with  my  knife,  on  the  other  side,  bending  over  to 
lop  a  sprout  from  it ;  when  down  came  two  young  people 
— lad  and  lass — upon  us,  as  fast  as  they  could  run,  out  of 
breath — agitated — and  as  frightened  as  two  wood-pigeons. 
The  young  man  flew  to  me,  and,  catching  hold  of  my  arm, 
begged  me,  pour  V amour  de  Dieu,  to  secrete  his  wife  some- 
where— anywhere — out  of  the  reach  of  the  gens-d?armes 
who  were  pursuing  them.  I  felt  in  ill-humour,  for  I  had  cut 
my  finger  just  then ;  besides,  I  did  not  relish  the  mention 
of  the  gens-d'armes  :  so  I  replied  plainly,  that  I  would  have 
nothing  to  do  with  persons  who  were  suspects.  Why 
should  I  thrust  my  own  neck  into  the  trap?  they  had 
better  go  about  their  business,  and  not  trouble  poor  people. 
Bah !  such  a  speech  was  not  like  Louis  Herbois !  but  out 
it  came,  Heaven  knows  how,  and  no  sooner  had  I  finished 


32      ROMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

than  up  runs  the  young  creature,  and,  seizing  my  moustache, 
she  cries,  "My  brave  fellow,  hie  away,  and  crop  off  all 
this;  none  but  men  have  a  right  to  it;  God  grant  you 
were  not  born  in  France ;  no  Frenchman  could  give  such 
an  answer  to  a  man  imploring  protection  for  his  wife. 
Look  at  my  husband — did  he  ask  aid  for  himself1?  Do 
you  think  he  would  turn  you  off  in  this  way,  had  you 
sought  his  assistance  to  save  her?"  pointing  to  Agathe, 
who  stood  trembling  all  the  while  like  an  aspen.  "  Ah ! 
you  have  made  a  mistake — I  see  you  repent — be  quick; 
what  will  you  do  with  us  ?"  And  she  held  me  tight  by 
the  moustache  until  I  should  answer,  while  the  husband 
stared  upon  me  in  a  sort  of  breathless  agony.  I  took  an- 
other look  at  the  little  creature,  while  she  kept  fast  hold  of 
me,  and  saw  that  she  was eh  Men !  I  see  you  under- 
stand me,'  said  Louis,  interrupting  himself,  as  he  glanced 
towards  his  wife.  '  My  heart  knocked  loud  enough,  believe 
me,  and  there  the  little  thing  stood,  her  hand,  as  I  was 
telling  you,  clenched  fast  in  my  moustache — ha !  ha !  ha ! 
— and  looking  so  full  into  my  eyes,  with  her  own  clear 
bright  blue  gazers.  "  Mon  Dieu — mon  Dieu  !  Agathe,  we 
must  help  these  pauvres  enfans"  "  You  are  a  Frenchman 
— I  thought  so,"  cried  the  little  one,  letting  go  my  mous- 
tache and  clapping  her  hands.  "  Oh !  hasten,  hasten,  or  we 
are  lost !"  "  All  in  good  time,"  said  I,  "  for — "  "  No,  no," 
interrupted  she,  "they  are  almost  upon  us:  in  a  moment 


A   J^IKST   ADVENTURE.  33 

we  may  be  captured,  and  then,  Albert,  oh !  Albert,  what  will 
become  of  you  ?"  So  saying,  she  threw  her  arms  about  her 
husband,  and  clung  to  him  as  if  nothing  should  part  them. 
"  Voila  bien  les  femmes  ;  to  the  devil  with  my  caution ; 
come  with  me,  and  I  will  put  you  in  a  place  where  the 
whole  Directory  shall  not  find  you,  unless  they  pull  my 
cottage  down  stone  by  stone."  I  hurried  them  to  the  house 
and  hid  them  in  a  private  closet  which,  following  out  my 
soldier-like  propensities,  I  had  constructed  in  one  end  of  the 
room,  in  a  marvellously  curious  way.  Not  a  soul  but 
Agathe  knew  of  it,  and  I  disliked  to  give  up  the  secret ;  but 
I  hurried  the  young  people  in,  and  an-anged  the  place,  and 
went  back  to  the  vines  and  cut  away  harder  than  ever.  In 
two  minutes,  up  rode  three  dragoons  with  drawn  swords,  as 
fine-looking  troopers  as  one  would  ask  for.  I  saw  them 
reconnoitre  the  cottage,  then,  spying  me,  they  came  towards 
us  at  a  gallop.  "  What  have  you  done  with  the  Comte  and 
Comtesse  de  Choissy  ?"  said  the  leading  horseman.  "  You 
had  better  hold  your  tongue,"  I  retorted,  "  than  be  clatter- 
ing away  at  random.  What  the  devil  do  I  know  of  the 
Comte  and  Comtesse  de  Choissy,  as  you  call  them  ?" 
"  Look  you,"  said  the  dragoon,  laying  his  hand  on  my 
shoulder,  "  the  persons  I  seek  are  escaped  prisoners ; 
they  were  seen  to  come  in  the  direction  of  this  cottage ; 
our  captain  watched  them  with  his  glass,  and  he  swears 

they   are   here."     "And  look   you,  Monsieur  Cavalier,   I 
o* 


34  ROMANCE   OF  STUDENT   L i *  A. 

am  an  old  soldier,  as  you  see,  if  scars  and  hard  service 
can  prove  one,  and  it  seems  to  me  you  should  take  an  old 
soldier's  word.  I  have  said  all  I  have  to  say ;  there  is  my 
house,  the  doors  are  open — look  for  yourself:  come,  Agathe, 
we  must  finish  our  morning's  work."  So  saying,  I  set 
at  the  vines  again.  I  looked  neither  one  way  nor  the 
other,  but  kept  clipping,  clipping,  thus  standing  between  the 
dragoons  and  poor  Agathe,  who  was  frightened  terribly, 
although  she  tried  to  seem  as  busy  as  I.  The  rider,  who 
was  spokesman,  stared  for  a  minute  without  saying  a  word, 
and  then  broke  out  into  a  loud  laugh.  "  An  old  soldier 
indeed  I — a  regular  piece  of  steel ! — one  has  but  to  point  a 
flint  at  him,  and  the  sparks  fly."  He  turned  to  his  men : 
"  Our  captain  was  mistaken,  evidently ;  this  is  a  bon  cama- 
rade ;  we  may  trust  to  him.  We  will  take  a  turn  through 
the  cottage  and  push  forward."  With  that  he  bid  me  good- 
morning,  and,  after  looking  around  the  house,  the  party 
made  off. 

' "  Well,  Agathe,  what's  to  be  done  now  ?"  said  I,  when 
the  dragoons  were  fairly  out  of  sight.  "  We  have  made  a 
fine  business  of  it."  "  Ah,  Louis,"  said  she,  "  let  us  not 
think  of  the  danger ;  we  have  saved  two  innocent  lives,  for 
innocent  I  know  they  are:  what  if  we  have  perilled  our 
own  1  Heaven  will  reward  us."  Nothing  more  was  said, 
though  we  both  thought  a  great  deal,  but  we  kept  at  GUI 
work  as  if  nothing  had  happened.  It  was  a  long  time  be- 


A  FIRST   ADVENTURE.  35 

fore  I  dared  let  the  fugitives  come  from  their  hiding-place  ; 
for  I  was  afraid  of  that  cursed  glass  of  Monsieur  le  Capi- 
taine.  When  I  did  open  it  J  found*  my  prisoners  nearly 
dead  with  suspense.  We  held  a  council  as  to  the  best 
means  for  their  concealment — for  who  would  have  had  the 
heart  to  turn  the  young  people  adrift  1 — and  it  was  finally 
settled  that  the  Comte  and  his  wife  should  dress  as  peasants, 
and  take  what  other  means  were  necessary  to  alter  their  ap- 
pearance, that  they  might  pass  as  such  without  suspicion. 
This  was  no  sooner  resolved  than  carried  out.  Agathe  was 
as  busy  as  a  bee,  and  w  a  few  minutes  had  a  dress  ready 
for  Victorine — we  were  to  call  her  by  her  first  name — who 
was  now  as  lively  as  a  creature  could  be,  running  about  the 
room  looking  into  the  glass,  and  making  fun  of  her  husband, 
who  had  in  the  mean  time  pulled  on  some  of  my  clothes. 
After  this,  the  young  comte  explained  to  me  that  his  father 
had  died  a  short  time  before,  leaving  him  his  title  and  im- 
mense estates,  which,  however,  should  he  die  childless, 
would  pass  to  an  uncle,  a  man  unscrupulous  and  of  bad 
reputation.  This  uncle  was  among  the  most  conspicuous  of 
the  revolutionists.  Through  his  agency  the  Comte  de 
Choissy  and  his  young  wife,  with  whom  he  had  been  but  a 
'.welvemonth  united,  were  arrested,  and  shortly  after 
sentenced  to  death.  They  escaped  from  prison  and  the 
guillotine  by  the  aid  of  a  faithful  domestic,  and  were  al- 
most at  Calais  when  they  discovered  that  they  were  pursued. 


36      ROMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

By  leaving  the  road  and  sending  the  carriage  forward,  they 
managed  to  gain  the  few  moments  which  saved  them. 
Their  principal  fear  now  was  from  the  wicked  designs  of 
the  uncle,  for  the  Directory  had  too  much  on  their  hands 
to  hunt  out  escaped  prisoners  who  were  not  specially  ob- 
noxious. For  some  days  the  young  people  did  not  stir 
from  the  house,  but  were  ever  ready  to  resort  to  their  hi- 
ding-place on  the  first  alarm.  There  were,  however,  no  signs 
of  the  gens-tfarmes  in  the  neighbourhood.  I  went  to  Calais 
in  a  little  while,  and  found,  after  much  trouble,  the  old 
servant  who  was  in  the  carriage  when  the  Comte  and  his 
wife  deserted  it.  He  had  been  permitted  to  pass  on  with- 
out being  molested,  so  alert  were  the  soldiers  in  pursuit  of 
the  fugitives  -y  and  he  had  brought  the  few  effects  which  he 
could  get  together  for  his  master  on  leaving  Paris  to  a  safe 
place;  and,  to  prevent  suspicion,  he  himself  had  taken 
sendee  with  a  respectable  traiteur.  By  degrees,  I  managed 
to  bring  off  every  thing  belonging  to  my  guests,  and  we 
fitted  up  the  little  room,  in  which  you  passed  the  night,  as 
comfortably  as  possible,  without  having  it  excite  remark 
from  any  one  casually  entering  it.  "  Albert"  was  industri- 
ous, aiding  me  at  my  work,  no  matter  what  I  was  doing, 
and  "  Victorine,"  too,  insisted  upon  helping  my  wife  in  what- 
ever she  did,  here,  there,  and  every  where,  the  liveliest,  the 
merriest,  the  most  innocent  creature  I  ever  set  eyes  upon. 
But  for  all  that,  one  could  see  that  time  hung  heavy  on  the 


A   FIRST   ADVENTURE.  37 

Comte.  He  became  thoughtful  and  triste,  and,  like  every 
man  out  of  his  proper  place,  he  was  restless  and  uneasy. 
Not  so  the  dear  wife  :  she  declared  she  had  never  been  sc 
happy,  that  she  had  her  Albert  all  to  herself:  she  wanted 
nothing  more :  if  she  but  knew  how  to  requite  us,  she  would 
not  wish  the  estates  back  again — she  would  live  where  she 
was  for  ever.  Then  her  husband  would  throw  his  arms 
around  her,  and  call  her  by  endearing  names,  which  would 
make  the  little  thing  look  so  serious,  but  at  the  same  time 
so  calm  and  satisfied  and  angel-like,  that  it  seemed  as  if  the 
divine  soul  of  the  Holy  Virgin  had  taken  possession  of  her, 
as  she  turned  her  eyes  up  to  her  husband  and  met  his  look- 
ing lovingly  down.  .  .  .' 

"  Here  Louis  Herbois  stopped,  and  felt  for  his  handker- 
chief, and  blew  his  nose  until  the  walls  resounded,  and  wiped 
his  eyes  as  if  trying  to  remove  something  that  was  in  them, 
and  proceeded : 

" '  Any  one  to  have  seen  her  at  different  times  would 
have  sworn  I  had  two  little  women  for  guests  instead  of  one : 
so  full  of  fun  and  mischief  and  all  sorts  of  pranks ;  so  lively, 
running  hither  and  yon,  teasing  me,  amusing  Agathe,  rally- 
ing her  husband ;  but  on  the  occasions  I  mention,  so  sub- 
dued, so  thoughtful — so  different  from  her  other  self:  del! 
she  had  all  our  hearts. 

" '  Several  months  passed,  much  in  the  same  manner. 
The  Comte  by  degrees  gained  courage,  and  often  ventured 


38      ROMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

away  from  the  house.  Twice  he  had  been  to  the  town,  but 
his  wife  was  in  such  terror  during  his  absence  that  he 
promised  her  he  would  not  venture  Hgain.  He  continued, 
meanwhile,  moody  and  ill  at  ease :  it  would  be  madness  to 
leave  his  place  of  concealment ;  this  he  knew  well  enough ; 
still  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  be  patient.  Do  not 
think,  Monsieur,  that  the  Comte  de  Choissy  failed  to  love 
his  wife  just  as  ever :  that  was  not  it  at  all.  A  man  is  a 
man  the  world  about ;  the  Comte  felt  as  any  one  would  feel 
who  finds  himself  rusting  away  like  an  old  musket,  which 
has  been  tossed  aside  into  some  miserable  cockloft.  I  had 
seen  the  world,  and  knew  how  it  was  with  him.  But  what 
could  be  done  ?  In  Paris  things  were  getting  worse  and 
worse.  At  first  we  had  le  Cote  Gauche  ;  les  Montagnardt ; 
les  Jacobines :  then  came  les  Patriotes  de  '93 ;  and  after 
that,  les  Patriotes  par  excellence,  who  were  succeeded  by  les 
Patriotes  plus  patriotes  que  les  patriotes  :  and  then  the  devil 
was  let  loose  in  mad  earnest ;  for  what  with  les  Bonnets- 
Rouges,  les  Enrages,  les  Terroristes,  les  Buveurs  de  Sang 
and  les  Chevaliers  du  Poignard,  Paris  was  converted  into  a 
more  fitting  abode  for  Satan  than  his  old-fashioned  country 
residence  down  below.  Pardon,  Monsieur !  I  am  getting 
warm ;  but  it  always  stirs  my  blood  when  I  recall  those 
days.  I  see,  too,  I  am  getting  from  my  story.  Well,  I 
tried  to  comfort  the  Comte  with  such  scraps  of  philosophy 
as  T  had  picked  up  in  my  campaigns — for  in  the  army,  you 


A  FIRST  ADVENTURE.  30 

must  know,  one  learns  many  a  good  maxim — but  I  did 
little  by  that.  The  sweet  young  Comtesse  was  the  only  one 
who  could  make  him  cheerful,  and  smile,  and  laugh,  and 
seem  happy  in  a  natural  way,  for  he  loved  her  as  tenderly 
as  a  man  ever  loved ;  besides,  the  Comtesse  had  now  a 
stronger  claim  than  ever  upon  her  husband.  I  fancy  I  can 
see  her  sitting  there,  her  face  bent  over,  employing  her 
needle  upon  certain  diminutive  articles,  whose  use  it  is  very 
easy  to  understand.  Do  you  know,  when  she  was  at  work 
on  these,  that  she  was  serious — never  playful — always  se- 
rious ;  wearing  the  same  expression  as  when  she  received 
from  her  husband  a  tender  word !  No ;  nothing  could 
make  her  merry  then.  I  used  to  sit  and  wonder  how  the 
self-same  person  could  become  so  changed  all  in  one  min- 
ute. How  the  Comte  loved  to  look  at  her !  his  eyes  were 
upon  her  wherever  she  was  ;  not  a  word  she  spoke,  not  a 
step  she  took,  not  a  motion  of  hers  escaped  him.  Well, 
the  time  came  at  last,  and,  by  the  blessing  of  God  and  the 
Holy  Virgin,  as  beautiful  a  child  as  the  world  ever  wel- 
comed was  placed  by  my  Agathe  in  the  arms  of  the  Comt- 
esse.  Perhaps,'  added  Louis  Herbois,  in  a  lower  voice, 
while  speech  seemed  for  the  instant  difficult,  'perhaps  I 
have  remembered  this  the  better,  because  God  willed  it 
that  we  ourselves  should  be  childless.  When  Agathe  took 
the  infant  and  laid  it  in  its  mother's  bosom,  the  latter  re- 
garded it  for  a  moment  with  an  expression  of  intense  fond- 


40       KOMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

ness ;  then,  raising  her  eyes  to  her  husband,  who  stood  over 
her,  she  laughed  for  joy. 

" '  Mother  and  daughter  prospered  apace.  The  little  girl 
became  the  pet  of  the  house ;  we  all  quarrelled  for  her ; 
but  each  had  to  submit  in  turn.  How  intelligent !  what 
speaking  eyes !  what  knowing  looks !  what  innocently  mis- 
chievous ways  !  mother  and  child !  I  wish  you  could  have 
seen  them.  I  soon  marked  a  striking  change :  the  young 
Comtesse  was  now  never  herself  a  child.  A  gentle  dignity 
distinguished  her — new-born,  it  would  seem,  but  natural. 
I  am  making  my  story  a  long  one,  but  I  could  talk  to  you 
the  whole  day  in  this  way.  So,  the  months  passed  on,  and 
the  revolution  did  not  abate ;  and  the  Comte  was  sick  at 
heart,  and  the  Comtesse  was,  as  ever,  cheerful,  contented, 
happy,  and  the  little  one  could  stand  alone  by  a  chair  and 
call  out  to  us  all,  wherever  we  were.  The  Comte,  notwith- 
standing his  promise,  could  not  resist  his  desire  to  learn 
more  of  what  was  going  on  than  I  could  inform  him  of.  I 
seldom  went  away,  for  when  hawks  are  abroad  it  is  well  to 
look  after  the  brood ;  and  as  I  had  nothing  to  gain,  and 
every  thing  to  lose,  by  venturing  out,  I  thought  it  best  to 
stay  at  home.  The  Comte,  on  the  contrary,  was  anxious  to 
know  every  thing.  He  had  made  several  visits  to  Calais, 
first  obtaining  his  wife's  consent,  although  the  agony  she 
suffered  seemed  to  fill  his  heart  with  remorse ;  this,  how- 
ever, was  soon  smothered  by  his  renewed  and  unconquer- 


A  FIRST   ADVENTURE.  41 

able  restlessness.  One  morning  he  was  pleading  with  her 
for  leave  to  go  again,  answering  her  expressions  of  fear 
with  the  fact  that  he  had  been  often  already  without  dan- 
ger. "  There  is  always  a  first  time,"  said  my  Agathe,  who 
was  in  the  room.  "  And  there  is  always  a  last  time,  too," 
said  I,  happening  to  enter  at  that  moment.  I  did  not  know 
what  they  were  talking  about,  and  the  words  came  out 
quite  at  random.  The  Comtesse  turned  pale.  "Albert," 
she  said,  "  content  yourself  with  your  Victorine  and  our 
babe :  go  not  away  from  us."  The  infant  was  standing  by 
its  mother's  knee,  and,  without  understanding  what  w~,s 
said,  she  repeated,  "  Papa — not  go."  The  Comte  hesitated : 
"  What  a  foreboding  company — croakers,  every  one  of  you 
— away  with  such  presentiments  of  evil!  Go  I  wiD,  to 
show  you  how  foolish  you  have  all  been ;"  and  with  that 
he  snatched  a  kiss  from  his  wife  and  the  little  one,  and 
started  off.  The  former  called  to  him  twice,  "Albert, 
Albert!"  and  the  baby,  in  imitation,  with  its  little  voice 
said,  "  Papa,  papa !"  but  the  Comte  did  not  hear  those 
p^pcious  tones  of  wife  or  child,  and  in  a  few  minutes  he 
was  out  of  sight.  I  cannot  say  what  was  the  matter  with 
me ;  my  spirit  was  troubled ;  the  Comtesse  looked  so  de- 
sponding, and  Agathe  so  triste,  that  I  knew  not  what  to  do 
with  myself.  I  did  nothing  for  an  hour,  then  I  spoke  to 
Agathe:  "Wife,  I  am  going  across  to  the  town."  She 
said,  "  Ah,  Louis,  I  almost  wish  you  would  go.  See  how 


42      ROMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

the  Comtesse  suffers.  I  am  sure  I  shall  feel  easier  myself." 
Then  I  told  her  to  say  nothing  of  where  I  had  gone,  and 
away  I  went.  It  did  not  take  me'  long,  for  it  seemed  as  if 
I  ought  to  hasten.  I  got  into  the  town,  and  having  walked 
along  till  I  came  to  the  Rue  de  Paris,  I  was  about  turning 
down  it  when  I  saw  a  small  concourse  of  people  on  the 
opposite  corner ;  I  crossed  over  and  beheld  the  Comte  de 
Choissy  in  the  custody  of  four  gens-d'armes,  and  surrounded 
by  a  number  of  "  citizens."  My  first  impulse  was  to  rush 
to  his  assistance,  but  I  reflected  in  time,  and  contented  my- 
self with  joining  the  crowd.  One  of  the  soldiers  had  gone 
for  a  carriage,  and  the  remainder  were  questioning  him ; 
the  Comte,  however,  would  make  no  reply,  except,  "  You 
have  me  prisoner,  I  have  nothing  to  say,  do  what  you  will." 
I  waited  quietly  for  an  opportunity  of  showing  myself  to 
him,  but  he  did  not  look  toward  me.  Presently  I  said  to 
the  man  next  me,  "Neighbour,  you  press  something  too 
hard  for  good  fellowship."  The  Comte  started  a  very  little 
at  the  sound  of  my  voice,  but  he  did  not  immediately  look 
up.  Shortly  he  raised  his  head  and  fixed  his  eyes  on  we 
for  an  instant  only,  and  then  turned  them  upon  others  of 
the  company  with  a  look  as  indifferent  as  if  he  were  a  mere 
spectator.  What  a  courageous  dog !  By  Heaven,  he  never 
changed  an  iota,  nor  showed  the  slightest  possible  mark  of 
recognition ;  still,  I  knew  well  enough  he  did  recognise  me, 
but  I  got  no  sign  of  it,  neither  did  he  look  towards  me 


A  FIRST  ADVENTURE.  43 

again.  Soon  the  carriage  came  up  and  he  was  hurried  in 
by  the  gens-cTarmes,  and  off  they  drove !  I  made  some  in- 
quiries and  found  that  the  Comte  was  known,  and  that  they 
were  taking  him  to  Paris. 

" '  It  seems  that  he  had  been  observed  by  a  spy  of  the 
uncle  during  one  of  his  visits  to  the  town,  and  although  he 
was  not  tracked  to  his  home — for  he  was  always  very 
cautious  in  his  movements — yet  a  strict  watch  was  kept  for 
his  next  appearance.  I  went  to  see  the  old  domestic,  but  he 
knew  not  so  much  as  I.  My  steps  were  next  turned  home- 
ward. What  a  walk  that  was  for  me  !  How  could  1  enter 
my  house  the  bearer  of  such  tidings  !  "  Bon  Dieu  !  ah, 
ban  JDieu"  I  exclaimed,  "  ayez  pitie!"  and  I  stopped  under 
a  hedge  and  got  down  on  my  knees  and  said  a  prayer,  and 
then  I  began  crying  like  a  child.  I  said  my  prayer  again, 
and  walked  slowly  on ;  then  I  saw  the  house,  and  Agathe  in 
the  garden,  and  the  Comtesse  with  the  little  one  standing  in 
the  door — looking — looking.  I  came  up — "  Albert — where 
is  Albert?  where  is  my  husband?"  I  made  no  answer. 
"  Tell  me,"  she  said,  almost  fiercely,  taking  hold  of  my  arm. 
I  opened  my  mouth  and  essayed  to  speak,  but  although  my 
lips  moved  I  did  not  get  out  a  syllable.  I  thought  I  might 
whisper  it,  so  I  tried  to  do  so,  but  I  could  not  whisper ! 
The  Comtesse  shrieked,  the  child  began  to  cry,  and  Agathe 
came  running  in.  "  Come  with  me,"  said  I  to  my  wife ;  and 
I  went  into  our  chamber  and  told  her  the  whole,  and  bid 


44      ROMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

her  go  to  the  Comtesse  and  tell  the  truth,  for  I  could  not. 
My  dear  Agathe  went  out  half  dead.  I  sat  still  in  my 
chamber;  presently  the  door  opened,  and  the  Comtesse 
stood  on  the  threshold.  Her  eyes  were  lighted  up  with  fire, 
her  countenance  was  terribly  agitated,  her  whole  frame 
trembled :  "  And  you  are  the  wretch  base  enough  to  let  him 
be  carried  off  to  be  butchered  before  your  eyes  without 
lifting  voice  or  hand  against  it,  without  interposing  one 
word,  one  look,  one  thought!  Cowardly  recreant!"  she 
screamed,  and  fell  back  in  the  arms  of  my  wife  in  violent 
convulsions ;  the  infant  looked  on  with  wondering  eyes,  and 
followed  us  as  we  laid  the  Comtesse  on  the  bed,  and  then 
put  her  little  hand  on  her  mother's  cheek,  and  said  softly, 
"  Mamma."  In  a  few  minutes  the  Comtesse  began  to  re- 
cover. She  opened  her  eyes  with  an  expression  of  intense 
pain,  gave  a  glance  at  Agathe  and  me,  and  then  observing 
her  child,  she  took  it,  and  pressed  it  to  her  breast  and 
sobbed.  Shortly  she  spoke  to  me,  and  oh !  with  what  a 
mournful  voice  and  look :  "  Louis,  forgive  me ;  I  said  I 
knew  not  what ;  I  was  beside  myself.  You  have  never 
merited  aught  from  me  but  gratitude ;  will  you  forgive 
me  T'  I  cried  as  if  I  were  a  baby.  Agathe,  too,  went  on  so 
that  I  feared  she  could  never  be  reconciled  to  the  dreadful 
calamity — for  myself,  I  was  well  nigh  mad.  I  could  but 
commend  the  Comtesse  to  the  Great  God,  and  hasten  out  of 
her  sight.  Five  wretched  and  wearisome  days  were  spent. 


A  FIRST  ADVENTURE.  45 

The  character  of  the  Comtesse  meantime  displayed  itself. 
Instead  of  sinking  under  the  weight  of  this  sorrowful  event, 
she  summoned  resolution  to  endure  it.  She  was  devoted 
to  her  child ;  she  assumed  a  cheerful  air  when  caressing  it ; 
she  even  tried  to  busy  herself  in  her  ordinary  occupations : 
but  I  could  not  be  deceived,  I  knew  the  iron  had  entered 
her  soul.  All  these  heroic  signs  were  only  evidences  of 
what  she  really  suffered.  Did  I  not  watch  her  closely  ?  and 
when  the  Comtesse,  folding  her  infant  to  her  breast,  raised 
her  eyes  to  Heaven  as  if  in  gratitude  that  it  was  left  to  her, 
I  fancied  there  was  an  expression  which  seemed  to  say, 
"  Why  were  not  all  taken  1"  The  little  one,  unconscious 
of  its  loss,  would  talk  in  intervals  about  "  papa ;"  and  when 
the  mother,  pained  by  the  innocent  prattle,  grew  sad  of 
countenance,  the  child  would  creep  into  her  lap,  and  putting 
its  slender  fingers  upon  her  eyes,  her  lips,  and  over  her  face, 
would  say,  "  Am  I  not  good,  mamma  1  I  am  not  naughty ; 
I  am  good,  mamma." 

" '  Five  days  were  passed  in  this  way ;  on  the  morning 
of  the  sixth,  we  were  startled  by  the  Comtesse,  who,  in 
manifest  terror,  came  to  us  holding  her  child,  which  was 
screaming  as  if  suffering  acute  pain :  its  eyes  were  blood- 
shot and  gleamed  with  an  unnatural  brilliancy,  its  pulse 
rapid,  and  head  so  hot  that  it  almost  burned  me  to  feel  of 
it.  Presently  it  became  quiet  for  a  few  minutes,  but  soon 
the  screams  were  renewed.  Alas!  what  could  we  do? 


46      ROMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

Agathe  and  I  tried  every  thing  that  occurred  to  us,  but  to 
no  purpose :  the  pains  in  the  head  became  so  intense  that 
the  poor  thing  would  shriek  as  if  some  one  was  piercing  her 
with  a  knife,  then  she  would  lay  in  a  lethargy,  and  again 
start  and  scream  until  exhausted.  Not  for  a  moment  did 
the  Comtesse  allow  her  darling  to  be  out  of  her  arms.  For 
two  days  and  two  nights  she  neither  took  rest  nor  food ; 
absorbed  wholly  in  her  child's  sufferings,  she  would  not  for 
a  moment  be  diverted  from  them.  Agathe,  too,  watched 
night  and  day.  On  the  third  night  the  child  appeared  much 
easier,  and  the  Comtesse  bade  Agathe  go  and  get  some  rest. 
She  came  and  laid  down  for  a  little  time  and  at  last  fell 
asleep ;  when  she  awoke  it  was  daylight ;  she  knocked  at 
the  door  of  the  Comtesse — all  was  still ; — she  opened  it  and 
went  in.  The  Comtesse,  exhausted  by  long  watching,  had 
fallen  asleep  hi  her  chair,  with  her  little  girl  in  her  arms. 
The  child  had  sunk  into  a  dull  lethargic  state,  never  to  be 
broken.  Alas !  Monsieur — alas !  the  little  one  was  dead ! 
Agathe  ran  and  called  me.  I  came  in.  What  a  spectacle ! 
.  .  .  .  Which  of  us  should  arouse  the  unhappy  Comt- 
esse? or  should  we  disturb  her?  Were  it  not  better 
gently  to  withdraw  the  dead  child  and  leave  the  mother  to 
her  repose  ?  We  thought  so.  I  stepped  forward,  but  cour- 
age failed  me.  I  did  not  dare  furtively  to  abstract  the  pre- 
cious burden  from  the  jealous  arms  which  even  in  slumber 
were  clasped  tightly  around  it.  Oh  !  my  God !  .  .  .  . 


A   FIRST  ADVENTURE.  47 

While  we  were  standing,  the  Comtesse  opened  her  eyes :  her 
first  motion  was  to  draw  the  child  closer  to  her  heart — then 
to  look  at  us — then  at  the  little  one.  She  saw  the  whole. 
She  had  endured  so  much  that  this  last  stroke  scarcely 
added  to  her  wretchedness.  She  allowed  me  to  take  the 
child,  and  Agathe  to  conduct  her  to  the  couch  and  assist 
her  upon  it.  She  had  held  out  to  the  point  of  absolute  ex- 
haustion, and  when  once  she  had  yielded  she  was  unable  to 
recall  her  strength.  She  remained  in  her  bed  quite  passive, 
while  Agathe  nursed  her  without  intermission.  I  dug  a 
little  grave  in  the  garden  yonder,  and  Agathe  and  I  laid  the 
child  in  it.  The  mother  shed  no  tears  ;  when  from  her  bed 
she  saw  us  carry  it  away  she  looked  mournfully  on,  and  as 
we  went  out  she  whispered,  'J  Mes  beaux  jours  sont  passes." 
Soon  the  grave  was  filled  up  and  flowers  scattered  over  it, 
and  we  came  back  to  the  cottage.  As  I  drew  near  her 
room  I  beheld  the  Comtesse  at  the  window,  supporting  her- 
self by  a  chair,  regarding  the  grave  with  an  earnest  longing 
gaze,  which  I  cannot  bear  to  recall.  As  I  passed,  her  eye 
met  mine, — such  a  look  of  quiet  enduring  anguish,  which 
combined  in  one  expression  a  world  of  untold  agonies ! 
Oh !  I  never  could  endure  a  second  look  like  that.  I  rushed 
into  the  house  :  Agathe  was  already  in.  I  called  to  her  to 
come  to  me,  for  I  could  not  enter  that  room  again.  "  Wife," 
I  said,  "  I  am  going  to  Paris.  Do  not  say  one  word.  God 
will  protect  us.  Comfort  the  Comtesse.  Agathe,  if  I  never 


48  ROMANCE   OF  STUDENT   LIFE. 

return,  remember — it  is  on  a  holy  errand — adieu."  I  was 
off  before  Agathe  could  reply.  I  ran  till  I  came  to  the 
main  road,  there  I  was  forced  to  sit  down  and  rest.  At 
last  I  saw  a  wagoner  going  forward  ;  part  of  the  way  I  rode 
with  him,  and  a  part  I  found  a  faster  conveyance.  At  night 
I  walked  by  myself. 

" '  I  had  a  cousin  in  Paris,  Maurice  Herbois,  with  whom 
in  old  times  I  had  been  on  companionable  terms.  He  was 
a  smith,  and  had  done  well  at  the  trade  until  the  revolution 
broke  out,  since  then  I  had  heard  nothing  from  him.  He 
was  a  shrewd  fellow,  and  I  thought  he  would  be  likely  to 
keep  near  the  top  of  the  wheel.  But  I  had  a  perilous  time 
after  getting  into  Paris  before  I  could  find  him.  I  learned 
as  many  of  the  canaille  watch-words  by  heart  as  I  could.  I 
thought  they  would  serve  me  if  I  was  questioned ;  but  my 
dangers  thickened,  until  I  was  at  last  laid  hold  of,  for  not 
giving  satisfactory  answers,  as  un  homme  sans  aveu,  and 
was  on  the  point  of  being  conveyed  to  a  maison  cFarret, 
when  I  mentioned  the  name  of  Maurice  Herbois  as  a  person 
who  could  speak  in  my  favour.  "  What !"  said  one,  "  le 
Citoyen  Herbois  ?"  "  The  very  same,"  said  I,  "  and  little 
thanks  will  you  get  from  him  for  slandering  his  cousin  with 
a  charge  of  incivisme"  There  was  a  general  shout  at  this, 
and  off  we  hurried  to  find  Maurice.  I  had  answered  nothing 
of  whence  I  came  or  where  I  was  going,  which  was  the  rea- 
son I  had,  at  length,  got  into  trouble.  I  knew  Maurice  to 


A   FIRST   ADVENTURE.  49 

be  a  true  fellow,  revolution  or  no  revolution,  and  so  deter- 
mined  to  hold  my  peace  till  I  should  meet  him.  I  found 
that  he  had  been  rapidly  advanced  by  the  tide  of  affairs, 
which  had  set  him  forward  whether  he  would  or  no. 
Indeed,  Maurice  was  no  insignificant  fellow  at  any  rate. 
The  noise  of  the  men  who  carried  me  along  soon  brought 
him  out.  I  spoke  first :  "  Maurice,  my  dear  cousin,  I  am 
glad  to  find  you ;  but  before  we  can  shake  hands,  you  must 
first  certify  my — loyalty,"  I  was  about  to  say,  but  bit  my 
tongue,  and  got  out "  civisme"  "  My  friends,"  said  Maurice, 
"  this  is  my  cousin,  Louis  Herbois,  once  a  valiant  soldier, 
now  a  brave  and  incorruptible  citoyen.  He  is  trustworthy ; 
he  comes  to  visit  me ;  I  vouch  for  him."  This  was  so  sat- 
isfactory, that  we  were  greeted  with  huzzas,  and  then  I 
went  in  with  Maurice.  I  need  not  tell  you  how  much 
passed  between  us.  In  short,  we  talked  till  our  tongues 
were  tired.  I  found  my  cousin  as  I  expected,  true  as  a 
piece  of  his  own  steel.  He  had  been  carried  along,  in  spite 
of  himself,  in  the  course  of  revolution,  and  had  become  a 
great  man,  as  the  best  chance  of  saving  his  head.  I  told 
him  my  whole  story,  and  the  object  of  my  visit.  "  A  fruit- 
less errand,  Louis,"  said  he ;  "I  know  the  case ;  and  where 
personal  malice  is  added  to  the  ordinary  motive  for  prose- 
cution, there  is  no  escape.  Poor  fellow !  I  wish  I  could  help 
him ;  but  the  uncle,  he  is  in  power :  ah !  there  is  no  help 
for  it."  Suddenly  a  new  thought  struck  him,  "  Louis,  did 


50  ROMANCE   OF   STUDENT   LIFE.. 

you  come  by  the  Hotel  de  Vffle?"  "Yes."  "What  was 
going  on1?"  "I  looked  neither  right  nor  left;  I  don't 
know."  "  Well,  what  did  you  hear  ?"  "  I  heard  a  cry  of 
Vive  Tallien!  with  strange  noises  and  shouts  and  yells; 
and  somebody  said  that  the  National  Guards  were  disband- 
ing, and  had  forsaken  Robespierre ;  and  the  people  were 
surrounding  the  Hotel  de  Ville."  "Then,  Dieu  merci, 
there  is  hope.  You  are  in  the  nick  of  time;  let  us  out. 
If  Robespierre  falls,  you  may  rescue  the  Comte.  He  is 
in  the  Rue  St.  Martin ;  in  the  same  prison  is  Madame  de 
Fontenay,  the  friend  of  Tallien,  whom  Robespierre  has 
incarcerated.  The  former  will  proceed  thither  as  soon  as 
Robespierre  is  disposed  of,  to  free  Madame ;  there  will  be 
confusion  and  much  tumult.  I  know  the  keeper:  I  must 
be  cautious ;  but  I  will  discover  where  the  Comte  and  the 
lady  are  secured.  Then  I  will  leave  you  with  the  jailer ; 
the  crisis  cannot  be  delayed  another  day.  Wait  till  you 
hear  them  coining,  then  shout  Vive  Tallien!  run  about, 
dance  around  like  a  crazy  man — hasten  the  jailer  to  release 
Madame,  and  do  you  manage  to  rescue  the  Comte — then  be 
off  instantly ;  don't  come  here  again ;  strike  into  the  coun- 
try while  the  confusion  prevails.  Come,  let  us  go  this 
minute."  And  I  did  go.  I  found  Maurice's  introduction 
potent  with  the  keeper,  and,  what  was  better,  I  found  the 
keeper  to  be  an  old  companion  in  arms,  who  had  belonged 
to  the  same  company  with  me.  We  embraced ;  we  were 


A  FIRST   ADVENTURE.  51 

like  two  brothers ;  nothing  could  have  happened  better.  I 
learned  from  him  all  I  cared  to  know.  I  staid  hour  after 
hour;  just  as  I  was  in  despair  at  the  delay,  I  heard  the 
expected  advance.  I  found  my  fellow-soldier  understood 
what  it  meant.  I  began  to  shout  Vive  Tallien !  as  loud  as 
I  could  cry.  In  a  fit  of  enthusiasm  I  snatched  the  keys  from 
the  hands  of  the  keeper,  as  if  to  liberate  the  lady,  while  my 
comrade  opened  the  doors  to  the  company.  I  hied  first  to 
the  Comte's  room.  In  one  instant  the  door  was  unlocked. 
"  Quick !"  I  whispered ;  "  follow  me — do  as  I  do.  Shout, 
huzza ;  jump  this  way  and  that — but  stick  close  to  me."  In 
another  minute  I  had  unbolted  the  door  of  Madame  de 
Fontenay,  making  as  much  noise  as  I  could  get  from  my 
lungs — the  Comte  keeping  very  good  time  to  my  music. 
So,  while  we  were  shouting  Vive  Tallien  !  at  the  top  of 
our  voices,  Tallien  himself  rushed  in  with  a  large  party.  I 
took  the  opportunity  to  gain  the  street,  and,  without  so 
much  as  thanking  my  comrade  for  his  attentions,  I  glided 
into  an  unfrequented  lane,  the  Comte  at  my  heels ;  and  I 
did  not  stop,  nor  look  around,  nor  speak,  till  I  found  myself 
under  cover  of  an  old  windmill  near  St.  Denis,  where  I  used 
to  play  when  I  was  a  boy.  There  I  came  to  a  halt,  and 
seizing  the  Comte  in  my  arms,  I  embraced  him  a  thousand 
times.  I  took  some  provisions  from  my  pouch,  which  my 
cousin  had  provided,  and  bade  him  eat,  for  we  should  stand 
in  need  of  food.  We  then  proceeded,  avoiding  the  main 


52      ROMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

road,  and  getting  a  ride  whenever  we  could,  but  never  wast- 
ing a  moment — not  a  moment.  I  told  the  Comte  what  had 
happened,  and  that  he  must  hasten  if  he  would  see  his  wife 
aliye.  At  last  we  came  near  our  house.  The  Comte  could 
scarcely  contain  himself:  he  ran  before  me;  I  could  not 
keep  up  with  him.  How  my  heart  was  filled  with  forebo- 
ding !  how  I  dreaded  to  come  nearer ! — but  apprehension 
was  soon  at  an  end.  There  was  my  little  cottage,  and  in 
the  doorway,  leaning  for  support  against  the  side,  stood 
the  Comtesse,  gazing  on  vacancy — the  picture  of  despair 
and  desolation.  At  the  sight  of  her  husband,  she  threw  out 
hei  hands  and  tried  to  advance :  she  was  too  feeble,  and 
would  have  fallen  had  he  not  the  same  moment  folded  her 
in  his  arms. 

" '  Bien,  Monsieur  /'  continued  Louis  Herbois,  after  clear- 
ing his  voice,  '  the  worst  of  the  story  is  told.  The  Comt- 
esse was  gradually  restored  to  health,  and  the  Comte  was 
content  to  remain  quietly  with  us  till  the  storm  swept 
past;  but  the  lady  never  recovered  the  bright  spirits 
which  she  before  displayed,  and  the  Comte  himself  could 
never  speak  of  the  little  one  whom  he  kissed  for  the  last 
time  on  that  fatal  morning,  without  the  deepest  emotion. 
It  seems  to  have  been  destined  that  this  should  be  their 
only  affliction.  The  uncle  was  beheaded  in  one  of  the  sud- 
den changes  of  parties  the  succeeding  year,  and  in  due  time 
the  Comte  regained  his  estates.  Sons  and  daughters  were 


A   FIRST   ADVENTURE.  53 

born  to  them,  and  their  family  have  grown  up  in  unbroken 
numbers.  The  Comte  and  Comtesse  can  scarcely  yet  be 
called  old,  their  health  and  vigor  remain,  and  they  enjoy 
still  those  blessings  which  a  kind  Providence  is  pleased  to 
bestow  on  the  most  favoured.  But  the  Comtesse  de  Chois- 
sy  will  never  forget  the  child  which  lies  there, .  Twice  a 
year,  accompanied  by  the  Comte,  she  visits  the  cottage. 
She  lays  with  her  own  hands  fresh  flowers  over  the  little 
grave,  and  waters  the  moss  which  overspreads  it ;  and  the 
tears  stand  in  her  eyes  when  she  looks  upon  the  spot 
where  we  buried  her  first-born.  We  have  engaged  that 
every  morning  we  will  renew  the  flowers,  and  preserve  the 
mosses  always  green.  It  is  a  holy  office,  consecrated  by 
holy  feelings.  Ah !  life  is  a  strange  business :  we  may  not 
be  always  serious,  we  cannot  be  always  gay.  God  grant, 
Monsieur,  that  in  Heaven  we  may  all  be  happy  !' 

"  I  have  given  you  the  whole  story,"  said  Mr.  Belcher, 
after  a  short  pause ;  "  but  look,  the  sun  is  out ;  let  us  go  to 
the  Courtgain." 


I  retired  that  night  with  a  great  many  new  impressions. 
My  head  was  full  of  Mr.  Philip  Belcher,  and  before  I  went 
to  sleep  I  took  a  dozen  different  surveys  of  his  character. 
There  was  a  genuineness  in  it  which  was  positively  charm- 
ing.  To  be  sure,  he  was  a  little  too  abrupt — a  little  too 


54       ROMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

positive ;  but  that  I  oould  excuse  in  one  so  many  years 
my  senior.  I  began  to  turn  over  in  my  mind  his  theory 
o?  travel,  and  this  led  me  into  a  sort  of  review  of  my 
own  plans.  We  were  going  to  Paris  to  pursue  a  distinct 
course  of  study,  walk  the  hospitals,  and  attend  lectures — 
that  was  the  object  of  our  coming  abroad.  But  along  with 
this,  if  the  truth  must  be  told,  at  least  so  far  as  I  was  con- 
cerned, floated  agreeable  visions  of  the  brilliant  capital  of 
France,  which  were  not  associated  with  the  hospital  or  the 
lecture-room — visions  somewhat  indistinct,  but  conveying 
ideas  of  novelty,  gayety,  pleasure  :  embracing,  perhaps, 
sight-seeing,  lion-hunting,  promenades  on  the  Boulevards, 
visits  to  the  cafes,  evenings  at  the  opera  or  the  saloons, 
ascending  columns,  traversing  gardens,  lounging  in  shops, 
witnessing  the  ascent  of  balloons,  attending  executions  at 
the  Place  de  Greve,  and  so  forth ;  from  all  which  were  to 
spring  innumerable  charming  adventures.  And  here  my 
visions  would  fade  quite  into  air,  and  throw  me  back  on 
vague  conjecture.  I  admit  there  was  nothing  extraordinary 
in  this — really  nothing  at  all.  To  an  American  youth, 
brought  up  in  all  the  strictness  of  a  New  England  educa- 
tion,— to  which  I  beg  leave  here  to  give  my  hearty  com- 
mendation,— there  can  be  no  greater  change  than  to 
transport  him  suddenly  to  Paris.  The  experiment  is  a 
hazardous  one.  The  chances,  certainly,  are  two  to  one  that 
he  goes  to  the  devil,  or,  if  he  stops  short  of  that  destination, 


A   FIRST  ADVENTURE.  55 

it  is  with  so  much  injury  to  character  and  person  that  it 
takes  the  greater  part  of  his  life  to  repair  damages.  But  I 
am  digressing  from  my  subject,  which  was  Mr.  Philip 
Belcher  and  his  peculiarities,  and  the  effect  our  intercourse 
was  likely  to  have  on  me.  It  had  already  set  me  thinking 
in  a  new  direction.  For  I  had  really  formed  no  distinct 
purpose  of  understanding  the  French  character,  content  to 
assume  the  commonplace  and  ridiculous  notions  usually 
entertained  on  the  subject  by  those  who  speak  the  English 
tongue.  Besides,  I  had  not  a  thought  about  any  part  of 
France,  except  Paris.  It  had  never  occurred  to  me  that 
the  space  between  Calais  and  Paris  was  inhabited — that  it 
contained  human  beings.  Now  I  did  think  of  it.  A  sudden 
desire  arose  to  know  something  about  them.  How  did 
they  manage  their  every-day  affairs  ;  what  were  their 
habits,  their  social  customs ;  how  did  they  live,  marry,  and 
die  ;  what  were  the  sports  of  the  children,  the  occupations 
of  the  young  men  and  women,  the  employments  of  the  old ; 
and  so  revolving  a  thousand  things  newly  sprung  up  in 
my  brain,  I  fell  asleep. 


56      ROMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE 


CHAPTEE    II. 

A     SURPRISE. 

"UPON  my  word,  you  have  taken  rapidly  to  French 
habits.  Ten  o'clock — almost,  and  you  sound  asleep." 

I  opened  my  eyes,  and  saw  Partridge  standing  over  me 
with  a  most  amused  expression  of  countenance.  "  My  dear 
fellow,"  I  exclaimed,  starting  up  and  seizing  his  hand,  "I 
am  so  delighted  to  see  you.  Where  have  you  been,  and 
what  have  you  been  doing  all  this  time,  and — and  when 
did  you  arrive?" 

"  I  will  tell  you  the  whole  story  one  of  these  days ;  I 
got  in  last  night  after  you  were  in  bed,  and  was  coming 
straight  to  your  room,  but  an  odd  old  fellow,  with  very 
square-toed  boots,  who  took  the  liberty  of  claiming  me  as 
a  countryman,  when  I  entered  the  house,  said  he  thought 
I  had  better  not  disturb  you.  One  would  suppose  he  had 
known  you  a  thousand  years :  he  seems  to  take  quite  an 
interest  in  you.  Has  he  an  unmarried  daughter  ?" 

"  It  must  be  Mr.  Belcher." 

"  Who  the  deuce  is  Mr.  Belcher  ?     But  never  mind  that 


ASuRPRISE.  57 

now.  You  must  hurry  and  dress.  I  have  taken  seats  for 
both  of  us  in  the  diligence ;  it  starts  in  just  one  hour. 
Only  think  of  it  —  to-morrow  night  we  are  in  Paris! 
Bravo !  huzza !  tira  lara !  Come,  come — en  avant.  '  The 
climate's  delicate ;  the  air  most  sweet ;'  and  we  set  off  in 
just  fifty-seven  minutes." 

A  bucket  of  cold  water  seemed  to  fall  with  one  dash 
upon  my  newly  developed  ideas  of  travel  and  wayside 
investigation.  Partridge  discerned  something  in  my  ap- 
pearance, for  he  exclaimed,  "  What  is  the  matter  1  any 
thing  wrong  ?" 

"  Oh,  nothing  at  all ;  but  don't  you  think  you  are  a 
little  hasty  in  your  decision  to  push  on  so  rapidly  to 
Paris?" 

"  Rapidly  /"  cried  my  friend ;  "  I  am  sure  you  need  not 
complain.  Why,  I  have  been  pitying  you  the  whole  morn- 
ing for  what  you  must  have  suffered  the  last  five  days  in 
this  miserable  hole.  I  have  been  up  since  five  o'clock,  and 
have  seen  all  I  desire  to  see  of  this  place :  I  want  to  get 
out  of  it." 

"  But,"  I  interposed,  "  suppose  we  proceed  leisurely  over 
the  road,  and  see  something  of  the  inhabitants  between 
here  and  Paris,  and  learn  their  manners  and  customs,  that 
we  may  really  know  something  about  the  French  people." 

"  I  will  lay  a  hundred  to  one  that  your  Mr.  Belcher  has 

been  stuffing  your  head  with  this  nonsense ;  indeed,  the  old 

3* 


58      ROMANCE  OF  STUDKNT  LIFE. 

chap  I  think  had  some  design  on  me,  but  I  gave  him  the 
slip.  Now,  seriously,  what  do  you  want  of  these  folks  by 
the  way  ?  You  will  see  coarse  peasants ;  men  and  women 
with  wooden  shoes,  or  with  no  shoes,  at  work  in  the  fields, 
or  driving  or  riding  a  donkey  small  enough  for  me  to 
put  in  my  pocket ;  people  who  live  on  bread,  soup  maigre 
and  carrots,  and  who  do  not  possess  the  first  point  of 
interest  for  any  one.  Besides,  what  a  miserable  plan  for 
our  becoming  perfect  in  French.  I  thought  I  could  speak 
the  language  like  a  native,  and  I  find  I  can  neither  under- 
stand what  is  said  to  me,  nor  make  myself  understood 
in  return." 

I  drew  a  long  sigh  as  I  perceived  my  late  visions  of 
travel-life  fade  away,  and  replied  almost  reluctantly,  "  I 
suppose  we  must  go,  especially  as  you  have  engaged  seats" 
— "  and  paid  for  them,"  interrupted  Partridge ;  "  and  more 
than  that,  I  have  paid  a  little  Frenchman  for  giving  up  his 
seat  in  the  interieur  and  going  into  the  rotonde,  and  now 
we  shall  be  seated  vis-a-vis  to  two  fine-looking  women.  I 
have  seen  them  both,  and  I  calculate  on  improving  my 
French  vastly  on  the  journey." 

There  was  nothing  more  to  be  said,  so  I  hurried  down, 
breakfasted,  we  mounted  into  the  interieur,  (the  ladies  were 
there  before  us,)  and  away  we  rattled.  No :  we  did  not 
rattle  away;  for  just  as  we  were  about  to  do  so,  as  I 
thought,  the  chef  du  bureau,  or,  as  we  would  say,  the  "  stage 


THE    DILIGENCE.  59 

agent,"  comes  to  the  door  and  proceeds  to  examine  us  by 
his  list. 

"Numero  1,  Madame  Le  Preux.  Numero  2,  Monsieur 
Taige." 

"That  means  me,"  cried  Partridge, — "  Id,  Monsieur  ; 
now  I  know  the  French  for  my  name." 

"Numero  3,  Madame  Vigny.  Numero  4,  Monsieur 
Taige  encore." 

"  That's  you,"  said  my  friend,  addressing  me ;  "  I  put 
the  two  seats  down  in  my  name ;  all  right,  Monsieur,  that 
is,  Jest  juste." 

"  Numero  5,  Monsieur  Le  Preux.  Numero  6,  Capitaine 
Duclos." 

But  the  seat  was  vacant,  and  no  Capitaine  Duclos  re- 
sponded. This  led  to  a  slow,  careful,  scrutinizing  call  of 
the  six  numbers  and  the  six  names  over  again,  as  if  in  some 
way  it  would  come  out  right  on  another  trial.  So  these 
were  repeated,  with  considerable  pause  between  each.  Al- 
'  though  "  Capitaine  Duclos"  was,  when  reached,  pronounced 
with  a  desperate  emphasis,  the  "Capitaine"  did  not  an- 
swer, and  the  seat  remained  vacant.  A  Frenchman  when 
he  is  puzzled  wears  a  singular  expression  of  visage ;  and, 
strange  as  it  may  be  to  an  American,  here  was  matter  to 
puzzle  any  chef  du  bureau  of  any  of  the  messageries  in 
France.  If  Capitaine  Duclos  had  enrolled  his  name  and 
paid  for  his  seat,  why  was  not  Capitaine  Duclos  on  the  spot  ? 


60  ROMANCE   OF   STUDENT   LIFE. 

It  was  a  question  that  could  not  be  answered,  and  the  chef 
du  bureau  had  a  right  to  be  puzzled ;  still  he  did  not  relax 
his  efforts.  He  first  made  the  tour  of  the  entire  vehicle ; 
examined  the  rotonde,  the  coup6,  and  climbed  up  to  the 
banquette;  then  he  came  back  to  us  and  made  a  silent 
count.  Finally,  he  caused  proclamation  to  be  made  over 
the  court-yard — "  Numero  6,  Capitaine  Duclos." 

It  was  all  of  no  avail. 

Our  ladies  began  to  grow  impatient.  They  expressed 
themselves  very  decidedly  too.  "  Why  should  they  be 
obliged  to  wait  for  Capitaine  Duclos  ?  It  was  ten  minutes 
past  the  hour — the  other  diligence  had  started — why  did 
not  the  conducteur  proceed?  Such  conduct  was  without 
parallel  in  the  world's  history,"  and  so  on.  Partridge  and 
myself  chimed  in  with  assenting  words  and  gestures,  and 
thus  an  acquaintance  was  established  at  the  start,  or,  I 
should  say,  before  the  start.  In  the  midst,  however,  of  our 
energetic  remarks  and  indignant  remonstrances,  Capitaine 
Duclos  appeared.  He  did  not,  by  any  means,  approach 
with  the  air  of  a  man  who  has  been  the  unfortunate  cause  of 
inconvenience  to  an  entire  company  :  he  was  not  heated,  or 
excited,  or  even  in  haste,  nor  was  there  any  thing  depreca- 
tory in  his  appearance.  He  walked  with  remarkable  self- 
possession  to  the  door  of  the  interieur,  coolly  took  an  obser- 
vation to  ascertain  which  was  his  seat,  then  with  a  great 
deal  of  deliberation  selected  a  place  for  his  sword,  which 


CAPITAINE    DUCLOS.  61 

was  carefully  incased ;  next  followed  a  small  leathern  box, 
and  after  that  an  old  military  cloak.  Then,  first  glancing 
around  lest  he  should  seem  at  all  in  a  hurry,  he  slowly 
seated  himself,  while  the  chef  proceeded  once  more,  but 
this  time  silently,  to  count  our  company.  There  was  no 
difficulty  now.  "Numero  6"  was  all  right;  so  with  a 
complacent  nod  to  the  conducteur,  which  indicated  that  the 
arrangements  were  complete,  the  diligence  was  allowed 
to  get  under  way. 

The  indignation  of  our  company  against  Capitaine  Duclos 
speedily  subsided  as  we  were  galloped  out  of  the  town, 
although  Partridge  occasionally  eyed  the  imperturbable 
militaire  with  something  of  a  defying  manner.  I  am  not, 
however,  about  to  make  a  hero  of  the  Capitaine.  I  have 
given  an  account  of  his  first  appearance  because  it  pre- 
sented to  me  a  phase  of  French  character  which  I  had 
never  before  observed.  He  exhibited  nothing  of  what 
is  ordinarily  called  "  French  politeness,"  although  he  was 
not  in  any  degree  rude  or  uncivil :  neither  was  he  reserved 
after  the  fashion  of  an  Englishman :  but  there  was  some- 
thing in  his  tout  ensemble  which  said,  "An  officer  of  the 
army  of  the  Grande  Nation  can  have  no  apology  to  offer 
for  keeping  a  diligence  waiting  ten  minutes ;"  and  what  is 
more,  the  chef  du  bureau  appeared  to  be  of  the  same 
opinion. 

But  enough  of  our  military  friend.     To  us  every  thing 


62      ROMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

was  novel,  and,  of  course,  every  thing  was  delightful. 
The  very  vehicle  in  which  we  were  transported  was  a 
curiosity ;  while  those  little  peculiarities,  so  insignificant 
in  themselves,  yet  so  striking  to  the  stranger,  and  which 
it  is  hardly  possible  to  enumerate,  kept  our  minds  on  the 
alert  with  pleasing  excitement.  The  rain  had  settled  the 
dust,  and  the  verdure  of  every  kind  was  tinged  with  a 
deeper  green.  The  ladies  who  were  passengers  with  us 
were  very  sociable,  communicative,  and  entertaining ;  freely 
correcting  our  blunders,  and  willingly  answering  the  many 
questions  we  crowded  upon  them.  At  length,  the  country 
assumed  a  more  pleasing  aspect.  We  passed  beautiful 
little  hamlets,  half  hid  with  clustering  shade-trees,  in  each 
of  which,  with  its  ponderous  bell  suspended  in  the  tower, 
was  an  old  stone  chapel  where  the  inhabitants  came  to  wor- 
ship. How  much  I  wanted  to  leave  the  diligence  and  walk 
through  these  scenes  !  The  graveyards,  filled  with  strange- 
looking  black  crosses  and  fantastic  ornaments,  produced 
another  class  of  impressions,  which  were  speedily  changed 
for  others  still.  Women,  with  immense  straw  hats,  were 
labouring  hi  the  fields,  or  going  to  or  returning  from  them. 
Images  of  the  Holy  Virgin  could  be  seen  placed  in  small 
niches  in  many  of  the  houses,  and  tastefully  decorated. 
As  we  passed  through  the  larger  villages  we  amused 
ourselves  reading  the  signs  over  the  different  hotels.  I 
can  still  remember  many  of  them — so  vivid  are  first 


NEW    SIGHTS.  63 

impressions — such  as  "  Hotel  de  les  Syrenes" — "  Hotel  de 
la  Maison  Blanche" — "  Hotel  du  Cheval  Z>'or"— "  Hotel  du 
Sauvage1"1 — "  Hotel  des  Gentilhommes,"  and  so  forth.  I  rec- 
ollect the  two  last  struck  us  as  an  example  of  the  meeting 
of  extremes.  The  donkeys  we  encountered  by  the  way 
formed  no  trifling  object  of  attention ;  and  it  seemed  the 
farther  we  advanced  the  smaller  they  became — and  that 
the  smaller  they  became,  the  heavier  they  were  laden. 
What  immense  panniers,  and  what  very  little  donkeys ! 
We  had  great  amusement  at  dinner  in  fighting  our  way 
through  the  varieties  of  a  French  cuisine,  and  perceived 
very  little  difference  in  the  scramble  after  food  by  passen- 
gers from  a  diligence  and  those  from  a  stage-coach  at  home. 
We  came  back  to  the  diligence  in  fine  spirits.  Dinner 
had  put  us  on  most  excellent  terms  with  ourselves,  and 
in  good  humour  with  every  body. 

"  From  school  to  Cam  or  Isis,  and  thence  home ; 
And  thence  with  all  convenient  speed  to  Rome," 

repeated  Partridge,  gayly. 

"  Go  on,"  I  cried,  while  I  continued  the  quotation  for 

him — 

"  With  memorandum-book  for  every  town, 
And  every  post,  and  when  the  chaise  broke  down." 

— Here  Partridge  again  took  up  the  verse — 

"His  stock,  a  few  French  phrases  got  by  heart, 
With  much  to  learn,  but  nothing  to  impart." 


64       ROMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

"  You  omit  the  best  of  it,"  said  I,  as  my  friend  suddenly 
stopped — 

"  Surprised  at  all  they  meet,  the  gosling  pair, 
With  awkward  gait,  stretched  neck,  and  silly  stare, 
Discover  huge  cathedrals  built  with  stone, 
And  steeples  towering  high — much  like  our  own  !" 

And  now  Partridge  insisted  I  should  stop,  declaring  'we 
had  satirized  ourselves  sufficiently  without  my  finishing 
the  quotation.  Then  one  of  the  ladies  inquired  what  we 
had  been  saying;  so  we  attempted  a  translation  of  the 
lines,  first  one  taking  the  lead,  the  other  correcting,  and 
then  vice  versa,  until  we  got  the  whole  company  laughing. 
In  short,  the  utmost  hilarity  prevailed  for  the  remainder 
of  the  day,  and  we  rumbled  into  Amiens  much  more 
favourably  impressed  with  France,  Frenchmen,  and  French- 
women, than  when  we  left  Calais  that  same  morning. 

Great  was  our  progress  in  lingua  Franca  that  evening 
at  the  hotel, — and  in  the  morning  too, — for  innumerable 
were  our  demands  upon  man,  woman,  and  child,  in  and 
about  the  house,  and  marvellous  the  alacrity  manifested 
in  answering  them. 

All  our  company  were,  it  seemed,  bound  for  Paris ; 
for  all  were  ready  on  the  starting  of  the  "vehicle,"  as 
Partridge  called  it,  and  took  their  seats  precisely  as  they 
did  on  the  previous  day  :  the  door  was  just  closing,  when 


SCENE    AT    THE    INN.  65 

Madame  opposite  us,  who  had  been  looking  over  her  bill, 
suddenly  exclaimed,  "  Tenez,  tenez  un  moment!"  and, 
darting  out,  to  the  astonishment  of  every  body,  she  dis- 
appeared in  the  hotel.  Presently  she  came  running  back, 
having  in  her  hands  two  wax  candles,  which  she  bore  away 
in  triumph,  exclaiming,  "  Mes  bougies  /"  whereupon  Part- 
ridge seemed  possessed  with  a  sudden  idea,  for  he,  too, 
rushed  from  the  carriage,  cleared  the  court-yard  almost 
at  a  bound,  sprang  up  the  broad  staircase,  and  in  an 
instant  came  down  again,  also  with  two  wax  candles,  which 
he  exhibited  to  Madame  with  a  knowing  nod,  to  which  the 
lady  replied  with  a  sympathetic  assent.  The  whole  affair 
was  Greek  to  me,  which,  however,  I  readily  comprehended 
when  Partridge  exhibited  our  bill,  in  which  I  read,  among 
other  items, 

2  bougies        ...       2  francs. 

"  Shameful — outrageous — not  to  be  tolerated ! "  ex- 
claimed our  fair  friend. 

"  Perfectly  so,"  responded  Partridge,  seriously. 

"  Voila,  Monsieur"  she  continued,  showing  the  ends  of 
the  bougies,  "  our  candles  were  not  lighted  ten  minutes, 
and  to  be  charged  a  franc  for  each!  Heaven  knows  I 
don't  want  them" — here  she  wrapped  them  very  carefully 
in  some  paper  and  put  them  into  her  bag — "but  it  was 
so  monstrous  that  I  would  not  endure  it.  Had  it  been 


66      ROMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

half-a-franc  each,  it  would  have  been  quite  anotner 
thing." 

"  Madame  is  perfectly  right,"  replied  Partridge,  "  I 
quite  agree  with  her ;  'tis  really  a  monstrous  piece  of  work, 
and,  as  you  say,  little  as  I  require  the  article" — and  he 
thrust  one  without  wrapper  into  either  pocket — "  I  could 
not  but  follow  your  example."  Thereupon,  with  a  look 
of  serious  dignity,  my  friend  settled  himself  once  more 
in  his  seat. 

Without  further  detail,  I  will  say  that  the  second  day 
of  our  journey  was  even  more  agreeably  passed  than  the 
first.  Full  of  excitement — and  such  excitement  too,  so 
buoyant,  so  ample,  so  unmixed,  as  only  the  young  ex- 
perience— we  rattled  over  the  heavy  pavements  of  Paris 
— Paris,  city  of  pleasures  and  of  scientific  pursuits,  distin- 
guished for  frivolity,  distinguished  for  research.  Extremes 
meet  once  more.  The  Hotel  Sauvage  and  the  Hotel  des 
Gentilhommes  again.  But  I  had  no  time  to  moralize. 
The  bright  gas-lights  from  the  various  shops  and  cafes 
flashed  brilliantly  as  we  passed  along,  while  the  continual 
crack  of  our  postillion's  whip  seemed  to  invest  the  diligence 
and  all  its  passengers  with  an  additional  importance.  We 
dashed  along  the  rue  St.  ffonore  and  turned  into  the  rue 
de  Grenelle  and  brought  up  at  the  general  office  of  the 
then  messagerie  Royal.  A  large  hotel  flanked  one  side 
of  the  court,  and  as  the  evening  was  advanced,  for  want 


WE    ENTER    PARIS.  67 

of  a  better  place  for  logement,  we  went  tnere.  The  charm 
of  novelty  made  us  regard  every  thing  as  possessing  a 
"  pleased  aspect."  The  morrow  brought  some  drawbacks. 
We  were  astounded  to  find  the  streets  for  the  most  part 
without  sidewalks,  while  the  gutter  (like  the  trickling  gore 
from  the  extinguished  eye  of  Polyphemus) — 

"  Luminis  effossi  fluidum " 


laid  its  dirty  course  through  the  middle  of  the  street. 
Several  unmentionable  nuisances  offended  our  fastidious 
sense,  and  led  Partridge  to  purchase  a  record-book  for 
the  entry  of  the  particular  cases  which  came  under  his 
observation  in  la  belle  Paris.  But  these  were  only  trifling 
impedimenta  to  the  ardent  zeal  with  which  we  prosecuted 
our  discoveries.  But  two  or  three  days  were  spent 
rambling  over  the  finer  part  of  the  town,  before  we  went 
across  the  Seine  to  examine  the  quartier,  which  was  to 
be  our  residence  for  some  time  to  come.  If  we  had  cause 
for  complaint  before,  what  were  we  to  say  now  about 
streets,  trot  fairs,  gutters,  and  cleanliness,  or  rather  filth, 
generally.  It  was  well,  after  all,  that  we  were  struck 
with  the  worst  at  first,  and  had  room  afterwards  to 
become  interested  with  what  had  escaped  our  observation. 
Partridge  had  an  acquaintance,  a  young  medical  student, 
from  the  state  of  Vermont,  who  lodged  in  the  rue  Copeau. 
Thither  we  traced  our  steps,  and  finding  the  number,  were 


68      EOMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

directed  how  far  to  mount,  and  we  ascended  accordingly. 
We  found  Vincent  (that  was  his  name)  in  his  room,  in 
which  were  gathered  some  eight  or  ten  students,  who 
were  talking  and  laughing,  discussing  politics — Alibaud 
had  just  shot  at  and  missed  Louis  Philippe — smoking,  &c., 
&c.,  &c.  Our  countryman  received  us  most  cordially, 
introduced  us  formally  to  every  one  of  the  company, 
which  evidently  composed  a  set,  said  it  was  very  fortu- 
nate ;  two  capital  rooms  were  vacated  that  very  morning 
which  would  suit  .us  exactly ;  if  we  chose  he  would  step 
at  once  and  tell  Monsieur  Battz  that  they  were  taken. 
"  Bravo !"  shouted  several, "  our  numbers  will  be  kept  good ; 
that  is,  if  we  can  get  Etienne  out  of  the  conciergerie"  1 
learned  afterwards  that  he  had  been  arrested  in  that  house 
a  few  days  before,  and  sent  to  prison,  for  some  extra 
revolutionary  manifestations. 

I  think  Partridge  and  I  both  felt  like  hesitating,  but  we 
did  not  hesitate.  It  would  have  been  rude  to  Vincent; 
besides,  as  absolute  strangers,  we  could  not  do  better  than 
accept  "  any  port"  for  the  present,  until  we  could  see  and 
judge  for  ourselves.  So  we  thanked  our  friend  and  as- 
sented to  his  suggestions,  and  in  three  minutes  Monsieur 
Battz  appeared,  followed  by  the  two  Mademoiselles  Battz, 
by  all  three  of  whom,  with  Vincent  for  an  escort,  we  were 
ushered  into  our  apartments,  which  were  really  delightfully 


MONSIEUR    BATTZ.  69 

situated  in  the  rear  of  the  house  au  troisieme,  and  overlook- 
ing  a  very  pleasant  garden. 

"I  have  told  my  friends,  Monsieur  Battz,"  said  Vincent, 
"  that  they  are  to  have  the  rooms  at  the  same  price  which 
Rolles  paid  for  them." 

"  Pardon,  Monsieur  Vincent,  but  really  Jest  impossible, 
you  know " 

"Otherwise  I  must  take  them  across  the  way,"  con- 
tinued Vincent,  coolly,  "you  see  half  the  rooms  over 
there  are  to  let,  and  as  to  price " 

"  (Test  marche  donne"  interrupted  Monsieur  Battz,  has- 
tily. "  N^importe^fy  consens,  metis  fy perds,  en  verite" 

"  I  know  it,  I  know  it,  Monsieur  Battz,"  replied  Vincent, 
"  I  know  you  lose  money  by  it ;  but  then  you  are  such  a 
benevolent  man,  Monsieur  Battz,  and,  Mademoiselles,  I 
am  sure  you  wish  my  friends  to  take  the  rooms  ?" 

"  Oh,  certainement,  Monsieur,  assurement,  "  said  both 
the  young  ladies,  with  a  graceful  bow  and  a  score  of 
French  protestations. 

"Seven    sous    per   bottle    for    red    wine,"    continued 

» 

Vincent  to  us. 

"Ten,  Monsieur,  ten  sous,"  once  more  interrupted 
Monsieur  Battz ;  "  ten,  I  repeat,  Monsieur  Vincent,  for  all, 
except  my  old  lodgers "  * 

"  Not  including  the  bottle,"  proceeded  Vincent,  without 


"70       ROMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

heeding  the  interruption,  "  but  it  is  of  course  understood 
that  no  one  keeps  his  wine  into  the  second  day." 

I  felt  almost  sorry  for  poor  Monsieur  Battz,  who  seemed 
broken-hearted  at  Vincent's  peremptory  way  of  disposing 
of  matters,  to  say  nothing  of  the  pantomime  kept  up  by 
the  young  ladies  with  deprecatory  shrugs  and  most  ex- 
pressive grimace,  as  if  they  had  said — 

"You  see,  Monsieur,  we  are  actually  submitting  to  a 
great  loss  in  order  to  oblige  you." 

I  was  on  the  point  of  doubling  the  price  of  rooms, 
wines,  segars,  and  every  thing  else,  so  much  was  I  affected 
by  these  manifestations,  when  it  occurred  to  me  that  Vin- 
cent very  naturally  knew  much  better  than  I  about  the 
matter,  so  I  held  my  peace. 

Going  back  to  his  room,  we  soon  engaged  in  general 
conversation  with  different  members  of  the  company. 

"  Ah,  Partridge,"  cried  Vincent,  "  I  knew  you  would 
follow  soon — I  saw  it  in  your  countenance  the  day  I 
said  good-bye  to  you  in  New  York. 

'  Home-keeping,  youth  have  ever  homely  wits.' 
And  now  you  will  admit  it  is  something  better 

'  To  see  the  wonders  of  the  world  abroad, 
Than  living  dully  sluggardized  at  home. '  " 

"  I  don't  know  any  thing  about  the  world,"  said  Part- 
ridge, demurely.  "I  came  to  Paris  to  study  medicine." 


THE    RUE    COPEAU.  71 

"  Oh,  of  course,  of  course,  to  study  medicine,  certainly," 
said  the  other,  laughing,  "  but  then  you  know  one  may " 

Here  some  of  the  party  interrupted  him,  by  saying  it 
was  time  to  go  to  the  lecture,  when  there  was  a  general 
rising,  and  the  company  set  off  for  the  lecture- room, 
while  we  remained  behind,  in  order  to  get  comfortably 
settled  in  our  new  rooms.  The  house  was  an  antique 
building  of  stone,  erected  with  considerable  architectural 
taste.  It  was  very  large  and  spacious,  and  had,  no 
doubt,  at  an  earlier  period,  been  the  hotel  of  some 
distinguished  person.  It  was  used  now  entirely  for  stu- 
dents' apartments,  with  a  salle-a-manger  below  and  billiard- 
room  adjoining,  and  a  wine-house  close  at  hand. 

The  next  day  we  commenced  to  "  walk"  the  Hospital 
de  Notre  Dame  de  Pitie,  and  were  soon  fairly  launched 
on  our  new  life. 

I  may  hereafter  speak  of  the  different  members  of 
our  company  at  the  rue  Copeau.  It  will  be  best  to 
introduce  them  as  occasion  may  require. 

There  was  one  young  fellow  in  particular,  to  whom  I 
took  a  great  fancy.  He  was  an  Englishman,  by  the 
name  of  Clements,  a  quiet,  civil  person,  not  altogether 
reserved,  but  possessing  a  species  of  unobtrusiveness, 
which  usually  conceals  much  that  is  worth  seeking  out 
and  cultivating.  We  became  intimate.  He  had  been 
several  years  abroad,  and  pursued  medicine  with  an 


72      ROMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

enthusiasm  curious  to  witness.  His  means  were  ample, 
and  it  was  the  mere  love  of  his  profession  which  kept 
him  in  Paris.  He  was,  besides,  a  thoroughly  educated 
and  accomplished  scholar.  From  the  moment  of  our 
arrival,  Clements  seemed  disposed  to  do  all  he  could  for 
us.  He  took  pains  to  inform  us  about  every  thing 
desirable  to  be  known  by  new-comers,  and  gave  us 
many  valuable  hints  as  to  our  hospital  course,  lectures, 
and  so  forth.  We  used  to  take  many  walks  together  over 
the  city,  with  which  Clements'  long  residence  in  Paris 
had  made  him  familiar.  We  indulged,  too,  in  frequent 
discussions  together,  on  a  great  variety  of  subjects ;  some- 
times they  assumed  a  serious  phase,  sometimes  they  were 
lively,  sometimes  sentimental,  sometimes  matter-of-fact, 
but  to  me  always  agreeable. 

Clements  had  one  peculiarity.  He  was  a  very  strong 
believer  in  the  good  faith  of  his  own  sex.  He  could 
not  read  any  ordinary  work  of  fiction,  or  even  the  merest 
story,  (for  almost  all  tales  relate  in  some  way  to  love 
affairs,)  without  losing  his  patience. 

As  I  stepped  into  his  room  one  afternoon  I  found 
him  just  closing  a  small  volume,  which,  as  I  entered,  he 
tossed  out  of  the  open  window  with  an  impatient  gesture. 

"  How  perfectly  disgusted  I  am,"  he  cried,  "  with  this 
absurd,  sickening,  lackadaisical  cant,  which  is  for  ever 
crying  up  the  wrongs  and  silent  endurance  of  injured 


THE  YOUNG  ENGLISH  DOCTOR.     73 

woman,  and  the  inconstancy  and  selfishness  of  'tyrant 
man.'  By  the  way,"  he  proceeded,  "do  you  know  there 
is  a  class  of  romance  writers  and  poets,  among  whom, 
I  am  sorry  to  say,  are  some  distinguished  names,  who 
invariably  use  for  a  '  stock  in  trade'  such  profound 
watch-words  as  the  following :  '  With  man,  love  is  a 
pastime ;  with  woman,  her  very  existence.' — '  Man  gives 
to  woman  his  leisure;  woman  gives  to  man  her  life.' — 
'Man  is  inconstant;  woman  is  true.'  When  I  hear  such 
apothegms  daily  repeated,  and  the  changes  rung  upon 
them  over  and  over  again,  (all  this  being  predicated  of 
man  because  he  is  man,  and  of  woman  because  she  is 
woman,)  I  am  ready  to  exclaim,  with  the  clear-hearted 
Burchell,  'Fudge!'" 

"  I  think  you  are  a  little  too  sweeping  in  your  denun- 
ciation," I  replied.  "  There  does  seem  to  me  to  be  a  con- 
stitutional difference  in  the  sex;  perhaps,  however,  it  is 
but  the  result  of  education ;  but  for  the  matter  of  watch- 
words, as  you  call  them,  what  have  you  to  say  to  the 
lines  of  the  great  dramatist? — 


-Were  man 


But  constant,  he  were  perfect :  that  one  enrol 
Fills  him  \vith  faults  ;  makes  him  run 
Through  all  the  sins : 
Inconstancy  falls  off,  ere  it  begins.' " 

u  I  have  to  say,"   answered   Clements,   "  that  if  you 
4 


74       ROMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

substitute  'woman'  for  'man'  in  the  passage  you  have 
recited,  it  would  contain  just  as  much  truth,  but  not  so 
much  poetry,  as  it  now  does.  For  the  same  reason,  I 
hold  that — '  Frailty,  thy  name  is  man,'  is  just  as  true 
as — '  Frailty,  thy  name  is  woman.'  No,  my  dear  fellow," 
continued  Clements,  "you  cannot  reason  me  out  of  the 
belief,  t\~t  the  Deity  made  man  as  true  of  heart,  as 
earnest  in  his  love,  as  devoted  in  his  attachment,  as 
woman.  The  Scripture  records  that  'in  the  image  of 
God  created  he  him  ;  male  and  female  created  he  them ;' 
and  surely  that  work  must  have  been  well  done  which 
God  himself  pronounced  '  very  good !'  That  man  has 
more  to  occupy  and  distract  his  attention;  that  he  is, 
in  a  majority  of  cases,  continually  engaged  in  a  struggle 
with  need,  and,  in  consequence,  that  his  affections  are 
less  seldom  fixed  than  those  of  woman,  is  true  enough. 
On  the  contrary,  the  life  of  woman,  as  society  is  con- 
stituted, is  calculated  to  give  to  her  impulses  a  hot-house 
growth,  (I  say  nothing  of  the  direction;)  so  that  love 
with  her  becomes  neither  a  healthful  passion  nor  a  refined 
friendship,  but  simply  a  feverish  longing,  derived  from 
that  strange  heart-vacancy  which  every  young  girl,  after 
reaching  a  certain  age,  is  sure  to  experience.  If  at 
this  period  some  natural  and  agreeable  occupation  could 
be  provided,  which  should  serve  to  keep  both  the  mind 
and  the  heart  in  a  healthful  tone ;  if  man  could  be  less 


MAN  AND   WOMAN   DISCUSSED.  75 

engrossed  with  cares  and  woman  less  with — nothing,  I 
believe  broken  hearts  would  be  nearly  equally  divided 
between  the  two  sexes.  But  let  us  have  done  with  the 
subject.  Few  people  agree  with  me,  and  I  am  myself  so 
stubborn  that  I  agree  with  but  few ;  so  let  us  take  a  walk." 

I  assented,  and  we  took  our  course  over  by  the  Pan- 
theon and  wandered  into  the  rue  cCEnfsr.  At  length 
my  companion  stopped  before  one  of  the  houses,  and, 
pointing  to  a  window,  said : 

"I  lodged  in  those  rooms  for  a  long  time.  It  was 
a  singular  affair  drove  me  away  from  them.  I  have 
never  related  it  to  any  human  being,  and  for  very  good 
reasons.  I  have  half  a  mind  to  tell  you  the  story — I  know 
I  can  trust  to  your  discretion — for  it  comes  very  a  propos 
of  our  conversation  before  we  started  out,  and  presents  a 
case  of  devotion  on  the  part  of  man  worthy  of  record. 
I  was  an  eye-witness  of  what  I  am  about  to  tell  you, 

and but  the  street  is  no  place  for  my  story;  here 

is  a  quiet  spot  where  I  used  often  to  go.  You  shall 
have  the  narration  with  some  of  Antoine's  best  ro/e." 
Clements  led  the  way  into  a  neat  apartment,  and  selecting 
a  retired  corner,  gave  his  order  to  the  garpon,  which  being 
supplied,  he  prepared  his  coffee,  sipped  a  spoonful  of  the 
beverage,  cast  a  glance  over  the  room,  and  commenced 
as  follows : 


76  ROMANCE   OF  STUDENT   LIFE. 


CHAPTER    III. 

THK     STORY    OF    LUDWIG    BEENHARDI. 

I  FIRST  came  to  Paris  four  years  ago  to  attend  medical 
lectures.  The  revolution  which  made  Louis  Philippe 
king  of  the  French  had  subsided.  The  city  was  quiet, 
except  when  disturbed  by  occasional  plots  against  the 
king's  life,  manifested  by  the  letting  off  of  pistols,  blunder- 
busses, and  "  infernal  machines,"  in  away  that  none  but 
Frenchmen  know  how  to  appreciate. 

There  were  at  that  time  in  Paris  an  unusual  number 
of  students ;  I  suppose  between  twenty  and  twenty-five 
thousand.  These  were  made  up,  as  you  very  well 
know,  from  almost  every  country  upon  the  face  of  the 
globe.  Nearly  all  of  them  had  apartments  "  sur  Vautre 
cote  du  Seine,"  in  the  part  denominated  "The  Students' 
Quarter,"  quite  as  you  now  see  them.  By  the  way, 
although  we  form  here,  in  a  measure,  a  community  of 
O'ar  own,  still  you  must  not  suppose  it  is  similar  to  a 
community  of  German  students :  far  from  it.  For  while 
the  size  and  immense  resources  of  Parjs  present  con- 


THE   STORY   OF   LUDWIG   BERNHARDI.       77 

tinual  and  varied  temptations  for  the  idler  and  the 
pleasure-seeker,  and  the  excitement  of  politics  (your 
student  is  always  a  true  republican)  gives  a  zest  to 
the  life  even  of  the  most  studious,  they  serve  at  the 
same  time  to  break  down  that  barrier  which  always 
stands,  as  an  absolute  division,  between  the  students 
in  German  universities  and  the  "outside"  world.  There- 
fore in  Paris  there  is  more  of  refined  debauchery;  in 
the  universities,  more  out-and-out,  dare-devil  dissipation 
and  hardihood:  in  Paris,  numerous  intrigues,  an  occasional 
assassination,  and  few  duels ;  in  the  universities,  less  in- 
trigue, no  assassinations,  and  half-a-dozen  duels  per  diem.  I 
need  not  tell  you  who  are  now  living  on  the  spot,  that 
the  morals  of  the  students  generally  were  bad — deplorably 
bad.  With  comparatively  few  exceptions,  each  student 
lived  with  his  mattresse,  who,  besides  being  his  faithful  and 
attached  "friend,"  (I  use  the  parlance  of  the  town,)  per- 
formed the  part  of  his  housekeeper,  sa'V  to  the  prepa- 
ration of  his  cafe,  and  looked  kindly  after  his  wardrobe. 
These  alliances,  you  know,  sometimes  continue  for  years, 
with  fidelity  upon  both  sides.  But  it  is  not  my  purpose 
to  go  into  any  detail  of  what  has  so  often  been  spoken 
of:  I  only  allude  to  it  now,  to  make  my  story  intelli- 
gible. 

My  lodgings  were  here  in  the  rue  (FEnfer,  at  the  spot 
I  pointed  out  to  you;  several  acquaintances  had   apart- 


78      ROMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

ments  in  the  same  place.     Most  of  us  attended  upon  the 
same  lecturers  and  walked  the  same  hospitals. 

Directly  across  the  street  stood  an  antiquated — even 
for  the  rue  cFEnfer — stone  house,  on  which  I  had  never 
seen  placarded  "Apartemens  a  louer"  but  where  lived  a 
pale,  slender,  sad-looking,  light-haired  young  man,  who 
came  forth  daily  and  proceeded  to  the  lecture-room  or 
to  the  hospital.  As  he  happened  to  make  similar  rounds 
with  myself,  I  soon  got  acquainted  with  him ;  that  is, 
we  spoke  when  we  met,  walked  along  together  if  we 
fell  in  company,  and  conversed,  though  sparingly,  on 
ordinary  topics:  further  than  this,  however,  I  found  it 
hard  to  push  my  new  acquaintance.  He  was  a  native 
of  "Wirtemberg,  and  his  name  was  Ludwig  Bernhardi. 
There  was  a  mystery  about  him  which  I  could  not 
fathom.  His  manner  was  neither  cold  nor  distant,  but 
beyond  a  certain  point  no  one  could  get  with  him.  He 
declined  every  invitation  to  visit,  and  never  invited  any 
one  to  visit  him.  He  kept  very  quiet,  went  to  no  place 
of  amusement,  and  never  mingled  among  the  students. 
There  was  a  large  garden  attached  to  the  old  stone 
house  where  Bernhardi  lodged,  and  a  lively  young 
Frenchman,  of  our  company,  one  day  ran  through  the 
hall  and  looked  out  into  this  garden,  where  he  saw,  as 
he  declared,  the  pale  student  walking  with  a  beautiful 
young  girl.  After  this  announcement  the  mystery  for  a 


THE   STORY   OF   LUDWIG   BERNHARDI.       79 

time  was  cleared  up:  "Bernhardi  was  so  engrossed  with 
his  'chere  amie*  that  for  the  present  he  cared  for  noth- 
ing better ;"  "  The  Wirtemberger  was  no  fool,  after  all ;" 
"  The  German  was  silent  and  shrewd ;"  and  so  on  and  so 
forth.  For  myself  I  did  not  fall  in  with  these  generally- 
received  explanations.  There  was  something  about  that 
pale  and  saddened  face,  that  suffering  and  subdued  air, 
which  was  inconsistent  with  any  of  them ;  at  least,  they 
did  not  satisfy  me.  No  one  had  as  yet  got  a  glimpse 
of  the  fair  maiden,  except  the  young  Frenchman,  and 
he  made  his  companions  half  crazy  with  his  descriptions 
of  her  beauty.  After  a  while  curiosity  began  to  prevail 
again.  Singular  to  say,  the  girl  was  never  seen  to  come 
to  the  street,  either  by  herself  or  in  company  with  her 
lover.  Now  Bernhardi  might  have  lodged  a  dozen  nymphs 
in  the  old  stone  house,  and  not  a  soul  would  have  taken 
notice  of  it  so  long  as  things  had  gone  on  after  a  natural 
way ;  but  when  the  student  never  walked  out  with  his 
sweetheart,  never  took  her  to  the  "theatre,"  nor  to  the 
"gardens,"  nor  to  a  "spectacle;"  when  the  maid  never 
appeared  at  the  window,  nor  in  the  hall,  nor  at  the 
little  fruit-market,  where  ripe  cherries  and  strawberries, 
the  usual  accompaniments  of  a  student's  breakfast,  were 
procured  by  the  devoted  "friend;"  when,  to  crown  tne 
mystery,  the  young  girl  was  observed  one  day  to  come 
to  the  street-door,  and  was  about  passing  out,  while 


SO      ROMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

Bernhardi  hurried  after  her,  and,  partly  by  force,  partly 
by  entreaty,  urged  her  away;  the  curiosity  of  every 
one  was  excited,  and  the  matter  became  a  topic  of 
general  conversation  and  remark.  Notwithstanding  all 
this,  no  person,  that  I  am  aware  of,  said  aught  to  the 
student  on  the  subject.  He  was  an  individual  that 
no  one  would  care  to  take  such  a  liberty  with.  One 
oould  not  but  entertain  a  vague  apprehension  that  by 
so  doing  one  might  rouse  a  sleeping  devil  which  should 
not  be  so  easy  to  lay. 

About  that  time  a  new-comer  took  possession  of  an 
apartment  in  our  house  which  had  been  vacated  a  few 
days  previous.  He  was  from  Marseilles ;  a  tall,  swarthy, 
black-looking  creature,  brawny  and  muscular,  a  savage 
in  appearance,  with  a  reckless,  swaggering  gait,  a  bullying 
air,  a  fierce,  impudent  mien.  He  was  just  the  sort  of 
fellow  to  domineer  over  the  timid  and  the  yielding,  and 
to  hide  his  crest  in  presence  of  true  courage  and  resolution. 
To  persons  of  such  description  I  generally  give  a  "  wide 
berth:"  I  would  rather  avoid  than  quarrel  with  them. 
There  are  no  laurels  to  be  gained  in  silencing  a  barking 
dog;  and  there  is  something  humiliating  in  a  conquest 
over  a  poltroon  and  a  coward. 

For  this  reason,  I  made  it  a  point  to  have  as  little  to 
do  with  Balaiguer  (that  was  the  name  of  the  Marseillese) 
as  possible.  Some  of  my  comrades  were  particularly 


THE   STORY   OF   LUDWIO   BERNHARDI.        81 

taken  by  his  bold  front  and  egregious  pretensions;  and 
with  a  certain  class  he  got  to  be  both  leader  and  ora- 
cle. I  soon  discovered  him  to  be  an  infamous  creature. 
He  was,  besides,  a  miserable  debauchee,  and  was  actually 
doing  serious  injury  to  habits  and  morals  among  a  class 
where  habits  and  morals  were  in  all  conscience  lax  enough. 

Balaiguer  was  not  long  in  getting  hold  of  the  story 
of  Bernhardi.  Then  he  swore  a  vulgar  oath  th?.t  "he 
would  unearth  this  sly  fellow;  he  would  see  whether  a 
man  had  a  right  to  keep  his  pretty  mistress  shut  up  in 
a  cage  like  a  bird.  He  would  pay  the  minx  a  visit,  and 

what  was  more,  by !  he  would  carry  her  off,  nolens 

volens,  before  the  little  Dutchman's  face  and  eyes." 

I  happened  to  be  present  at  this  harangue,  which 
was  made  one  day  to  a  knot  of  students  assembled  in 
the  "  salle-a-manger"  Balaiguer's  announcement  made  me 
shudder;  not  that  I  feared  for  the  safety  of  the  parties 
threatened ;  but  a  presentiment  suddenly  came  across  me 
that  death  would  be  in  the  mess  which  the  Marseilles^ 
was  brewing. 

The  next  day  Majendie  was  to  lecture  at  eleven 
upon  the  "  cause  of  pulsation."  I  had  returned  from  my 
usual  morning  visit  to  the  hospital,  where  we  had  the 
privilege,  as  you  now  have,  of  "  following"  Louis,  and  was 
quietly  seated  at  my  little  breakfast-table,  when,  after  a 

light  knock,  the  young  Frenchman,  who  had  reconnoitred 

4* 


82      ROMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

the  garden  across  the  street,  entered  the  room.  I  should 
have  mentioned  that  he  was  a  Parisian,  of  good  family, 
and  although  gay,  thoughtless,  and  fond  of  a  frolic,  had 
nevertheless  a  nice  sense  of  honour,  coupled  with  real 
refinement  of  character. 

"  Do  you  know,"  said  he,  "  that  I  feel  reproached  about 
our  neighbour  opposite1?  Here  is  Balaiguer,  who  swears 
that  as  soon  as  Bernhardi  goes  to  the  lecture  he  will 
run  over  and  make  love  to  his  mistress :  now  I  know 
the  bete  will  do  her  some  violence,  and  it  is  all  owing 
to  the  foolish  stories  I  have  told  of  my  seeing  her  in 
the  garden;  I  thought  but  to  have  some  fun  with  my 
comrades;  to  tell  you  the  truth,  the  girl  was  beautiful, 
but  there  was  something  in  the  looks  of  both  that  has 
made  my  heart  ache  ever  since.  Believe  me,  it  is  not 
as  we  suppose ;  and  yet  my  jokes  have  set  on  this  coquin. 
What  shall  I  do?" 

"  You  are  a  noble  fellow,"  I  exclaimed,  involuntarily. 
The  young  Frenchman  took  my  hand  and  pressed  it  to 
his  heart.  The  impulsive  words  were  appreciated.  "  We 
will  step  at  once,"  said  I,  "  to  Balaiguer.  He  must  not 
think  of  such  a  thing.  We  do  not  want  to  quarrel  with 
him  ;  but  we " 

"  Fear  nobody,"  interrupted  the  young  Frenchman. 
"  Let  us  go." 

Accordingly,  we  proceeded   to  the  apartment  of  the 


THE   STORY   OF   LUDWIO   BERNHARDI.       83 

Marseillese.  It  wanted  but  ten  minutes  to  eleven.  If 
I  made  any  delay  I  should  lose  even  a  tolerable  seat 
in  the  lecture-room,  so  I  came  at  once  to  the  point. 
Under  other  circumstances  I  might  have  been  less  direct. 
"  Balaiguer,"  said  I,  "  our  friend  here  informs  me  that  we 
are  altogether  on  the  wrong  scent  as  to  Bernhardi,  and 
that  there  is  nothing  over  the  way  to  excite  your  curiosity 
or  repay  your  gallantry.  We  hope,  therefore,  you  will 
let  our  neighbour  rest  in  peace." 

"  Bah !"  said  Balaiguer ;  at  the  same  time  putting  the 
forefinger  of  his  right  hand  under  his  eye,  and  pulling 
down  the  lower  lid,  he  exclaimed,  in  a  jeering  tone, 
"  a  tfautres  /" 

"  I  suppose  I  understand  you,"  I  continued.  """  Now  look 
you,  Monsieur  Balaiguer,  we  students  love  fair  play.  I 
am  no  informer,  but  I  give  you  notice  that  I  shall  warn 
Bernhardi  of  what  you  would  be  at.  Good-morning." 

"  You  could  not  do  me  a  greater  favour,"  shouted  the 
Marseillese,  as  the  young  Frenchman  and  I  passed  from 
the  room.  "  Tell  the  Dutchman  to  hurry,  for  I  shall  make 
short  work  of  it." 

We  descended  to  the  street,  hoping  to  see  Bernhardi 
as  he  came  from  Iris  room ;  we  were  too  late.  Our  con- 
cierge informed  us  that  he  saw  Monsieur  leave  his  house 
nearly  five  minutes  before  we  came  down.  "  Hasten 
after  him,"  said  the  young  Frenchman.  "I  will  not  go 


84       ROMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

to  the  lecture ;  I  will  remain  in  my  room.  Mon  Dieu ! 
I  am  quite  nervous." 

I  had  nearly  half-a-mile  to  walk,  or  rather  to  run, 
for  I  believe  I  ran  all  the  way.  As  I  anticipated,  the 
room  was  crowded.  The  lecture  had  commenced,  for 
Majendie  was  punctual,  and  he  had  much  ground  to  go 
over.  A  goose,  which  was  to  be  dissected  alive,  in 
the  course  of  his  remarks,  stood  upon  the  table,  in 
charge  of  a  favourite  student,  and  as  I  entered  the 
familiar  "  comyrenez-v ows"  of  the  lecturer  fell  upon  my 
ear.  I  heard  nothing  more.  I  glanced  anxiously  up 
and  down,  over  and  across  the  room,  but  could  not 
see  the  object  of  my  search. 

"  What*  the  devil  is  the  matter  with  you  ?"  said  my 
friend  D ,  taking  hold  of  me. 

"  Nothing ;  I  want  to  find  Bernhardi." 

"  There  he  is,  away  in  that  corner.    Don't  you  see  him  ?" 

I  took  a  direct  course  for  the  corner,  sometimes  over 
a  student's  back,  sometimes  over  the  benches,  and  laid 
my  hand  upon  his  shoulder.  "  You  had  better  go  home !" 
I  whispered  in  his  ear. 

Swift  as  thought  the  German  sprung  to  his  feet.  His 
face  became  livid ;  his  eyes  started  from  their  sockets. 

"Quick!"  said  I. 

Bernhardi  had  disappeared. 

I  do  not  know  how  I   sat  out  the  lecture.     I   have 


THE  STORY   OF   LUDWIG   BKRNHAKDI.       85 

some  recollection  of  seeing  the  poor  goose  struggle,  or 
try  to  struggle,  and  of  the  complacent  air  of  the  lecturer, 
as  he  mingled  his  "  Entendez  vous  ?"  "  Eh  lien !  voyez 
vous  ?"  with  the  cries  of  the  suffering  creature,  while 
he  deliberately  cut  away  muscle,  and  nerve,  and  tendon, 
in  the  gradual  illustration  of  his  subject.  But  my  thoughts 
were  elsewhere.  I  saw  in  my  mind  Bernhardi  and  the 
Marseillese.  I  pictured  every  conceivable  catastrophe ; 
and  so  engrossed  did  I  become  in  this,  that  the  first 
hint  I  had  of  the  completion  of  the  lecture  was  the 
general  uproar  consequent  on  clearing  the  hall.  I  hurried 
out  by  myself,  and  hastened  to  the  rue  d'Enfer. 

Going  up  the  staircase  I  saw  a  few  drops  of  blood 
scattered  along.  At  that  moment  the  young  Frenchman 
opened  the  door  of  his  room,  and  drew  me  into  it. 
His  mirthful  countenance  at  once  relieved  me. 

"Come  in — come  in!"  he  exclaimed;  "I  have  been 
watching  for  you.  Balaiguer  has  caught  it ;"  and  he  began 
laughing  immoderately. 

"  Don't  laugh  any  more,  for  Heaven's  sake,  till  I  know 
what  it  is  at !" 

Whereupon,  hi  few  words,  the  young  Frenchman 
informed  me  that  very  soon  after  I  left  Balaiguer 
crossed  over  to  Bernhardi's  quarters;  that  he  stationed 
himself  at  an  open  window  to  watch  the  other's  move- 
ments; that  after  the  lapse  of  some  five  minutes  he 


86       ROMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

heard  a  violent  scream,  and  was  about  running  across 
to  protect  the  party  assailed,  when  Bernhardi  came 
tearing  down  the  street  like  a  madman,  and  rushed  into 
the  house  and  up  the  stairs,  and  in  less  than  a  minute 
the  Marseillese  was  seen  rolling  from  the  top  to  the 
bottom ;  that  he  picked  himself  up  and  skulked  back 
into  his  room,  bleeding,  but,  as  my  companion  feared, 
not  much  hurt. 

After  expressing  our  mutual  delight  at  the  termination 
of  the  affair,  I  went  to  my  own  room.  I  took  it  for 
granted  that  the  matter  was  ended,  for  I  knew  that 
Balaiguer  had  not  courage  to  push  it  further,  and  I 
supposed  that  Bernhardi  would  rest  satisfied  with  the 
chastisement  he  had  already  inflicted.  I  was  mistaken; 
for  in  a  few  minutes  a  knock  was  heard  at  my  door, 
and  Bernhardi  entered.  He  was  pale  as  death ;  his  eyes 
glistened  with  intense  hate  and  desperation ;  his  soul 
appeared  harrowed  by  the  most  violent  emotions ;  but 
when  he  spoke,  his  words  fell  slowly,  and  were  articulated 
naturally. 

"  I  am  under  an  obligation  to  you :  for  that  reason  I 
come  here.  I  would  be  still  deeper  in  your  debt.  Will 
you  go  for  me  to  the  wretch  and  demand  immediate 
satisfaction  1  1  say  immediate  /" 

"  Are  you  not  carrying  tho  matter  too  far  ?"  said  I, 
soothingly ;  "  has  he  not  been  sufficiently  punished  ?" 


STORY    OF   LUDWIG   BKRNHARDI.  87 

"Punished!"  said  Bernhardi,  fiercely;  "do  you  know 
what  he  attempted  ?" 

I  shook  my  head. 

"  Then  it  shall  for  ever  remain  unknown.  Punished ! 
— one  short  minute,  and  I  should  have  been  too  late ! 
Hear  you  that?  Will  you  act  for  me"?  Will  you  act 
now  ?  Will  you  see  that  we  meet  forthwith]" 

"  That  will  depend  on  your  adversary." 

"  Oh,  I  cannot  wait — I  will  not  wait  I"  exclaimed 
Bernhardi :  "  go !  go  !" 

The  irresistible  frenzy  of  the  student  prevailed.  I 
was  taken  by  surprise.  Quiet  and  peaceful  as  was  the 
life  I  led,  before  I  was  aware  of  it,  I  found  this  strange 
commission  thrust  upon  me;  and  almost  before  I  knew 
it,  I  was  in  Balaiguer's  room. 

The  Marseillese  sat  smoking,  with  a  light  cap  upon 
his  head,  which  only  partly  concealed  some  recent 
bruises. 

"  So,"  said  the  savage,  "  you  come  to  have  your  laugh 
with  the  rest !  and  you  were  the  tell-tale,  eh  ? — you 
were  the  sneak !" 

"  We  will  settle  these  epithets  "by  and  by ;  at  present 
another's  business  has  a  preference.  You  must  be  aware 
that  your  conduct  this  morning " 

"  What  of  it  T 

"  Nothing,   except  that    Bernhardi   will   meet   you   at 


88       ROMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

any  moment  you  will  appoint;  for  him  the  sooner  the 
better." 

"  For  me  the  sooner  the  better,"  growled  the  Mar- 
seillese. 

"  Who  is  your  friend  ?" 

"  Sacre  bleu !  that  remains  to  be  seen.  I  will  send 
him  to  you." 

I  went  back  k>  my  room,  somewhat  surprised  at  the 
bold  bearing  of  Balaiguer,  for  I  was  sure  that  he  was 
a  coward,  until  I  remembered  that  he  was  an  expert 
swordsman,  and  that  Bernhardi  once  told  me  that  he 
himself  had  little  knowledge  of  the  weapon. 

In  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour  an  acquaintance  called 
on  the  part  of  Balaiguer.  As  I  anticipated,  swords  were 
chosen.  As  to  time  and  place,  the  Marseillese  was  quite 
indifferent. 

There  was  a  large  hall  over  a.  billiard-room  in  a 
street  near  by,  where  many  of  the  students  were  in 
the  habit  of  fencing,  but  where,  at  that  hour  of  the 
day,  no  one  was  likely  to  be  seen.  To  this  hall  we 
agreed  to  repair  forthwith. 

I  summoned  Bernhardi,  and,  accompanied  by  another 
friend,  according  to  arrangement,  we  proceeded  to  the 
appointed  place. 

The  German  grew  more  and  more  excited.  Never  had 
I  witnessed  such  an  awful  manifestation  of  human  passion. 


THE   STORY   OF   LUDWIO  BERNHARDI.        89 

"Are  you  expert  with  the  small-sword ?"  said  I,  as 
we  went  along. 

"It  matters  not  how  expert  I  am;  I  shall  pass  my 
weapon  through  his  heart  !" 

These  words  were  spoken  slowly  and  deliberately, 
yet  the  speaker  was  boiling  with  rage. 

We  entered  the  hall.  Balaiguer  and  his  friends  were 
on  the  spot.  Bernhardi  took  no  notice  of  any  thing. 
His  eyes  glared  more  horribly  than  ever;  a  white  foam 
gathered  on  his  lip. 

Balaiguer  seemed  in  spirits.  He  was  evidently  de- 
lighted at  the  excitement  of  his  adversary,  and  confident 
in  his  own  skill. 

The  preliminaries  were  soon  settled,  (for  a  student's 
duel  was  no  very  serious  affair,  it  rarely  being  a  matter 
of  life  and  death,  generally  ending  in  a  scratch,  or  at 
most  a  flesh-wound,)  and  the  parties  stepped  forward  for 
the  encounter. 

I  looked  at  Bernhardi  with  a  curious  eye.  His  "  case" 
was  a  phenomenon  in  physiology ;  for  excited — nay,  almost 
raving — as  he  was,  I  perceived  that  physically  his  muscles 
were  firm;  there  was  no  tremor  in  a  single  nerve. 
Dupuytren  himself,  at  the  moment  of  commencing  the 
most  serious  operation,  never  carried  a  firmer  hand. 
When  he  looked  his  adversary  for  the  first  time  in  the 
eye,  he  could  scarcely  contain  himself. 


90      ROMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

The  signal  was  given. 

"  Beast !"  screamed  Bernhardi,  as  he  brought  his  sword 
awkwardly  to  a  guard,  "  shall  I  kill  you  at  once,  or  shall 
I  do  it  with  a  '  one,  two,  and  three  ?'  Is  a  moment's  time 
worth  any  thing  to  you  1  If  so,  you  shall  have  it ;  for 
a  moment  saved  her!" 

Balaiguer  smiled  triumphantly  at  this  new  proof  of 
his  adversary's  frenzied  state,  and  made  an  ordinary  pass 
with  which  to  commence  the  combat.  Their  swords  met 
for  the  first  time. 

"Now  for  it!"  said  Bernhardi.  "One,"  (a  pass,  par- 
ried by  Balaiguer ;)  "  two,"  (parried  also ;)  "  three  !"  The 
Marseillese  fell,  thrust  through  and  through ! 

Bernhardi  gazed  at  tlift  dead  man  for  an  instant. 
"  Dog !"  he  exclaimed ;  then,  throwing  down  his  sword, 
he  clutched  my  arm,  and  clinging  to  it  convulsively,  he 
tottered  down  into  the  street. 

I  supported  him  to  my  apartments.  He  was  as  weak 
and  powerless  as  an  infant.  In  the  course  of  an  hour  he 
regained  sufficient  strength  to  walk  home  without  assist- 
ance, and  extorting  a  promise  from  me  to  visit  him  the 
next  morning,  he  went  away. 

I  bolted  my  door,  and,  throwing  myself  into  a 
chair,  remained  the  rest  of  the  afternoon  and  all 
the  evening  sitting  quite  alone.  At  length  I  went  to 
bed,  but  I  could  not  sleep.  Whichever  way  I  turned, 


THE   STORY   OF   LUDWIG   BERNHARDI.       91 

the  form  of  the  Marseillese,  cold,  stiff  and  stark,  lay 
stretched  out  before  me.  The  fierce  whiskers,  the  grim 
moustaches,  and  the  savage  beard,  curled  as  fierce  and 
as  grirn  and  as  savage  as  ever,  as  it  were  in  mockery 
of  the  pallid  features  they  once  so  gayly  adorned ;  whUe 
close  at  hand  stood  Bernhardi,  his  sword  dripping  with 
blood,  the  very  incarnation  of  an  exulting  fiend.  Not 
for  one  minute  did  I  close  my  eyes  the  whole  night, 
for  when  I  attempted  it  the  images  grew  more  horrible, 
and  I  was  forced  to  open  them  in  order  to  dispel  the 
illusion. 

I  tried  to  believe  the  whole  a  dream,  that  I  had 
been  oppressed  by  a  horrible  nightmare.  I  could  not 
realize  that  I  had  been  so  suddenly  arrested,  turned 
from  my  quiet,  unobtrusive  way  of  life,  and  made  to 
participate  in  the  death,  not  to  say  murder,  of  a  fellow- 
creature  :  it  seemed  as  if  the  morning  would  bring  some 
relief,  and  for  the  morning  I  anxiously  watched. 

It  came  at  last,  but  I  was  in  no  haste  to  stir  out. 
At  length  a  knock  at  my  door  roused  me.  It  was  the 
young  Frenchman,  and  I  rose  to  admit  him.  He  told 
me  about  what  I  feared  to  ask.  Balaiguer  was  discov- 
ered early  in  the  evening  by  some  students  who  repaired 
to  the  hall  to  fence.  They  gave  the  alarm,  and  the 
police  took  the  matter  in  charge.  Three  students,  ac- 
quaintances of  the  deceased,  were  missing;  (they  were 


92      ROMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

the  two  friends  of  Balaiguer  and  the  young  man  who 
with  me  acted  as  friend  to  Bernhardi,  who  fearing  the 
annoyance,  if  not  the  danger,  of  a  legal  investigation, 
had  immediately  left  Paris;)  it  was  understood  that 
Balaiguer  must  have  fallen  in  a  duel,  and  it  was  a 
natural  conclusion  that  the  three  who  fled  were  his 
antagonist  and  the  second  of  each  party.  So  suddenly 
had  the  affair  sprung  up,  so  suddenly  had  it  terminated, 
that  not  a  soul  beyond  the  persons  present,  except  the 
young  Frenchman,  who  could  guess  the  truth,  knew  or 
suspected  any  thing  relating  to  it.  The  latter  now  begged 
me  to  rise,  and  appear  as  if  nothing  had  happened,  and 
insisted  that  I  should  take  my  coffee  with  him. 

I  asked  for  Bernhardi.  The  young  Frenchman  had 
not  seen  him,  but,  singular  to  say,  his  name  had  not 
been  mentioned  in  connection  with  the  tragical  affair. 
Two  strong  cups  of  the  best  coffee,  with  the  usual  accom- 
paniments of  a  roll,  two  eggs,  and  a  plate  of  fruit,  did 
much  to  restore  the  steadiness  of  my  nerves,  which  had 
been,  I  admit,  considerably  shaken. 

Recollecting  my  promise  to  visit  Bernhardi,  I  crossed 
over  soon  after  breakfast  to  see  him. 

lie  was  standing  at  the  door  of  the  conciergerie,  appa- 
rently waiting  for  me. 

He  took  my  hand  as  I  came  up,  and  inquired  anx- 
iously how  I  was.  As  for  himself,  his  countenance  had 


THE  STORY   OF   LUDWIG   BERNHARDI.        93 

resumed  its  pale,  saddened  expression ;  no  trace  of  the 
passions,  which  had  been  so  terribly  roused,  appearing 
there. 

He  requested  me  to  go  with  him  to  his  room,  and 
I  willingly  assented.  We  entered  it  in  silence.  Bemhardi 
pointed  to  a  chair,  and  I  sat  down,  while  he  took  a  seat 
near  me.  I  glanced  over  the  apartment.  It  bore  traces, 
all  around,  of  the  presence  of — woman.  It  was  fur- 
nished with  admirable  taste,  and  ornamented  with  pictures; 
engravings,  and  embroidery.  Folding  doors,  which  how- 
ever were  closed,  led  into  another  room,  .and  with  the 
one  we  were  in,  evidently  formed  a  suite.  I  had  scarcely 
time  to  finish  this  rapid  inspection,  when  one  of  these 
doors  opened,  and,  I  speak  considerately,  the  loveliest, 
most  angelic-looking  being  I  ever  beheld,  entered.  Her 
face  was  as  faultless  as  the  Madonna  of  Correggio,  her 
form  as  perfect  as  the  Venus  of  Phidias,  her  countenance 
absolutely  lovely  and  serene ;  her  eyes  were  a  deep 
hazel,  and  the  heavy  tresses  of  her  rich  brown  hair 
were  exquisitely  braided  over  her  temples,  and  wreathed 
around  the  back  of  her  head.  She  walked  slowly  forward, 
and,  as  if  unconscious  of  my  presence,  approached  Bem- 
hardi, and  throwing  her  arms  over  his  shoulders,  pressed 
him  fondly,  while  she  exclaimed,  "  Dear,  dear  Ernest,  have 
you  returned  at  last  1  Oh  !  do  not  go  out  again !" 

Bemhardi   shrunk  from   the   embrace   as  if  suddenly 


94  ROMANCE   OP  STUDENT  LIFE. 

bruised  by  a  blow,  while  his  countenance  exhibited  signs 
of  physical  pain  and  suffering.  He  rose  quietly  from 
his  seat,  and,  putting  his  arm  around  the  lovely  intruder, 
led  her  gently  back  to  her  apartment,  without  any 
resistance  on  her  part.  As  she  was  leaving  the  room, 
she  turned  her  eyes  casually  upon  me ;  at  once  a  hor- 
rible suspicion  darted  through  my  brain,  my  heart 
beat  violently,  my  knees  shook  together,  I  almost  gasped 
for  breath.  Bernhardi  closed  the  door  and  resumed  his 
seat  by  me :  his  countenance  was  troubled ;  he  looked  in 
my  face  sadly ;  after  a  while  he  spoke. 

"I  asked  you  to  come  here  that  I  might  give  you 
the  explanation  to  which  you  are  entitled.  Eumour  and 
gossip  have  doubtless  been  busy  with  me.  I  care  for 
neither,  and  although  I  have  no  desire  for  notoriety,  I 
am  indifferent  to  it.  You  have  laid  me  under  an  obli- 
gation which  I  can  never  remove,  and  one  which  peremp- 
torily demands  that  I  should  explain  all  to  you.  I  shall 
be  brief,  just  as  brief  as  the  bare  recital  will  permit. 
Will  you  listen?" 

I  bowed  assent. 

"I  am  a  native  of  Wirtemberg.  I  was  born  in  the 

little  village  of .  My  father  was  a  wealthy  peasant, 

and  I  am  an  only  child.  I  was  brought  up  tenderly, 
and  as  I  was  said  to  manifest  considerable  wit  and 
intelligence,  my  father  determined  to  educate  me.  In 


THE   STORY   OF   LUDWIG   BERNHARDI.       95 

the  same  village  dwelt  a  widow  lady,  whose  husband 
had  been  an  officer  of  some  distinction  under  Napoleon. 
Upon  his  death  his  widow  had  come  back  to  her  native 
place,  bringing  with  her  an  only  child,  a  little  daughter 
of  some  seven  or  eight  years  of  age.  I  was  then  about 
ten.  The  widow's  fortune  was  small,  but  sufficient  for 
the  simple  habits  of  the  place  she  had  chosen  for  her 
home.  My  father  had  known  her  when  a  young  girl, 
and  with  my  mother  often  called  at  her  little  cottage. 
In  this  way  Rosalie  and  I  were  thrown  much  together. 
Indeed,  after  a  while  we  were  almost  inseparable.  In 
our  sports  and  plays  I  was  always  Rosalie's  bachelor. 
I  used  to  call  Rosalie  my  little  'wife'  and  she  called 
me  her  little  '  man.'  This  was  without  any  reflection 
on  our  part:  neitfter  of  us  were  old  enough  to  think 
seriously. 

"At  length  the  time  arrived  when  I  was  to  go  away 
to  school.  I  suppose  I  was  twelve  years  old,  and  took 
leave  of  Rosalie  with  a  heavy  heart.  I  really  think  at 
that  early  age  I  loved  her.  Well :  years  ran  along. 
From  school  I  went  to  Heidelberg.  I  was  ambitious,  I 
was  full  of  energy,  and  my  love  for  Rosalie  preserved 
my  boyish  purity  of  heart.  Year  after  year,  as  I  visited 
my  home,  I  was  surprised  to  find  in  her  some  new 
grace,  some  new  charm,  some  new  beauty.  At  sixteen, 
she  seemed  to  me  all  that  could  be  imagined  of  what 


96      ROMANCK  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

is  lovely  and  beautiful.  A  delicious  ecstasy  floated 
through  me  when  I  felt  that  she  would  one  day  be  mine. 

"But  I  had  a  drawback  to  my  happiness.  In  spite 
of  every  effort  to  believe  the  contrary,  I  could  not 
feel  in  my  very  heart  that  I  was  loved  by  Rosaile 
even  as  I  loved.  True,  she  was  fond  of  me,  but  it 
seemed  rather  the  attachment  to  be  felt  for  a  protector 
or  a  brother,  than  the  devotion  of  love  to  love. 

"  I  nursed  myself  with  hopes.  /  had  never  loved  but 
Rosalie;  no  one  had  ever  loved  me  but  Rosalie;  and 
who  could  expect  that  a  young  girl  should  show  the 
same  deep  devotion  that  marks  a  powerful,  manly  heart  ? 
This  was  the  way  I  reasoned.  Rosalie,  I  was  certain, 
kept  nothing  from  me.  She  told  me  every  thing.  She 
said  she  loved  me  as  well  as  she  loved  her  mother; 
ought  I  not  to  be  satisfied1?  But  when  I  pressed  her  to 
my  heart,  I  felt  not  that  electrical  affinity  which  cements 
in  one  hearts  which  are  united;  still  I  did  not  com- 
plain: how  could  I  complain,  when  Rosalie  told  me  I 
was  all  to  her  1 

"1  passed  three  y^ars  at  Heidelberg,  and  then  went 
to  Munich,  having  determined  on  medicine,  I  pre- 
pared to  follow  the  study  with  devotion.  I  had  been  at 
Munich  nearly  a  year,  and  I  yearned  to  come  home 
and  see  Rosalie.  I  had  stayed  away  longer  than  usual, 
because  I  wished  to  take  a  degree  in  my  profession; 


THE    STORY   OF   LUDWIG   BERKHARDI.       07 

then  I  felt  that  I  could  claim  Rosalie  for  my  wife.  1 
did  go  home.  Let  me  hasten  my  tale.  I  greeted  my 
parents ;  every  thing  was  well.  I  hurried  to  Rosalie ; 
she  was  well  too.  She  ran  out  to  meet  me.  She  was 
delighted  to  see  me.  Never  had  she  looked  so  beau- 
tiful. As  we  entered  her  mother's  house  together,  she 
exclaimed :  '  We  have  a  guest — a  charming  guest ;  a 
son  of  my  father's  dearest  friend.  He  has  been  with 
us  for  a  month,  but  must  soon  return  to  Paris;  and 
I  shall  miss  him  so !' 

"  My  brow  grew  overcast ;  my  heart  sunk.  I  said 
nothing;  I  believed  my  destiny  sealed.  I  did  not  even 
look  upon  Rosalie  reproachfully.  How  could  I  look 
reproachfully  upon  her? — for  her  soul  was  pure;  it 
knew  no  guile;  it  was  incapable  of  concealment,  or 
coquetry,  or  caprice. 

"Suffice  it  to  say — for  the  narration  is  too  much  for 
me — that  on  entering  the  cottage  I  found  a  young  and 
handsome  French  officer.  He  was,  as  Rosalie  had  said, 
the  only  child  of  her  father's  dearest  friend,  and  had 
sought  out  the  widow  at  his  father's  request.  Hear 
me,"  whispered  Bernhardi,  while  he  drew  his  chair  nearer 
to  me.  "I  made  friends  with  that  young  officer.  With 
the  closest  observation  I  sifted  him  as  wheat.  I  found 
him  honourable,  high-minded,  good-tempered,  pure.  I 
satisfied  myself  that  Rosalie  loved  him,  (poor  child ! 


98      ROMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

she  did  not  know  it ;)  I  sought  an  interview  with 
Ernest  de  Fleury — that  was  his  name ;  I  pressed  the 
secret  from  him,  which  he  swore  should  otherwise  never 
have  been  revealed,  for  he  knew  that  Eosalie  was  my 
betrothed.  Then  I  turned,  and  went  for  Eosalie.  I  had 
a  long,  long  interview  with  her.  For  Heaven's  sake,  let 
me  hasten !"  gasped  Bernhardi.  "  You — you — guess  the 
rest ;  guess  it  all.  The  sweet  angel  was  sweeter  than 
ever;  but — but — I  got  at  the  truth.  She  protested  that 
she  would  never,  never  give  me  up;  those  were  the 
words,  'give  me  up?  That  was  noble;  and  then  she 
pitied  me;  but  I  was  not  to  be  thwarted.  I  took  her 
with  me  to  the  cottage.  Ernest  de  Fleury  was  there. 
I  joined  their  hands  and  ran  out — I  ran  home,  and — 
and — old  as  I  was,  I  threw  myself  into  my  mother's 
arms,  and  burst  into  tears.  Oh!  GREAT  GOD  of  this 
strange  universe!  what  is  like  unto  a  mother's  love? 
There  I  sat  all  of  the  day — all  of  the  evening — my 
head  pressed  against  the  breast  that  had  given  me  life 
and  nourishment,  and  there,  in  broken  sentences,  amidst 
sobs  and  tears  and  groans,  I  told  her  all.  And  my 
mother,  how  she  sympathized  with  every  heart-pang ! 
how  entirely  did  she  understand  my  feelings  and  my 
motives!  how  tenderly  did  she  intwine  her  arms  around 
me,  until  at  last  I  fell  asleep  upon  her  bosom ! 
"  The  next  day  I  returned  to  Munich. 


THE   STORY   OF   LUDWIG   BERNHARDI.        99 

"  How  long  I  should  have  remained  away  I  know 
not ;  but  at  the  end  of  a  twelvemonth  I  heard  from  my 
parents  that  a  fearful  epidemic  was  raging  in  my  native 
village,  and  that  they  desired  to  see  me.  I  went  home. 
The  village  was  in  mourning;  a  malignant  fever  was 
carrying  off  the  inhabitants.  Rosalie's  mother  had  just 
expired,  and  Rosalie  herself  lay  sick  unto  death.  My 
parents  had  thus  far  escaped. 

"I  went  at  once  to  Rosalie's  cottage.  I  became  her 
physician,  attendant,  nurse.  I  watched  night  and  day. 
The  fever  had  reached  its  height,  the  crisis  had  come, 
and  Rosalie  opened  her  eyes  on  the  fearful  morning 
which  should  decide  her  fate.  I  saw  that  she  was 
saved.  A  grateful  look  of  recognition  beamed  in  her 
countenance.  She  was  very  weak,  but  the  danger  had 
passed. 

"The  next  morning  fatal  news  came  to  the  village. 
A  letter  to  Rosalie's  mother,  now  no  more,  announced 
the  death  of  Ernest  de  Fleury.  He  had  been  seized 
with  lla  grippe,1  then  the  prevailing  epidemic  in  Paris, 
and  had  died  in  six  hours. 

"Rosalie  was  the  first  to  see  the  letter.  One  glance 
was  enough;  she  fell  back  in  my  arms,  in  violent  con- 
vulsions. 

"  Days  and  weeks  and  months  I  watched  by  her  bed- 
side. At  length  her  strength  returned;  the  bloom  once 


100      ROMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

more  freshened  her  cheek.  I  was  full  of  hope.  One 
morning,  as  I  entered,  she  sprang  up  from  the  bed, 
and  throwing  her  arms  around  me,  she  exclaimed,  (as 
you  heard  her  exclaim  but  just  now,)  '  Dear,  dear  Er- 
nest! have  you  returned  at  last?  Oh!  do  not  go  out 
again !' 

"Then  my  cup  of  misery  was  full.  My  Rosalie, 
Ernest's  Rosalie,  was — imbecile  /" 

Bernhardi  paused ;  he  spoke  not  a  word  for  five  min- 
utes; then  he  said:  "You  know  the  whole.  She  thinks 
that  I  am  her  Ernest,  and  she  is  happy  in  my  presence. 
Physically,  she  enjoys  the  extreme  of  health;  mentally, 
alas !  she  is  no  more !  I  came  with  her  to  Paris,  hoping 
that  the  change  would  benefit  her,  for  Ernest  lived  here ; 
but  it  is  of  no  use.  My  prayer  is  that  my  life  may  be 
spared  to  outlast  hers;  for  what  will  become  of  her 
when  I  am  no  more?  Do  you  blame  me  for  assuming 
the  execution  of  the  law  upon  that  wretch?  You  can- 
not blame  me.  I  blame  not  myself. 

"  My  life  is  devoted  to  her.  I  honour  my  MAKER,  who 
has  given  in  CHRIST  JESUS  the  great  example  of  a  dis- 
interested love.  Who  is  so  selfish  as  to  whisper  to  me 
that  '  love  must  be  mutual  ?'  I  acknowledge  the  devo- 
tion of  woman.  I  know  that  often  she  dies  of  a  broken 
heart ;  but  I  live  broken-hearted !" 

Bernhardi  had  finished.     I  took  his  hand  and  pressed 


THE  STORY   OF   LUDWIG   BEBNHAKDI.      101 

it  in  silence,  and  came  away.      That  afternoon  I  quitted 
Paris  en  route  for  Italy. 

On  my  return  here,  after  the  lapse  of  more  than 
a  year,  I  made  inquiry  for  Bernhardi,  and  learned  that, 
several  months  before,  he  had  left  the  city  with  the 
unfortunate  Rosalie,  and  had  gone  no  one  knew  whither. 


102  KOMANCE   OF    STUDENT   LIFE. 


CHAPTER   IV, 

RAMBLES     OVEK    PARIS. 

EVERY  day  I  took  a  walk  by  myself  over  some  por- 
tion of  the  city.  My  plan  was  desultory,  but  not  irregular. 
There  was.  no  method,  yet  there  was  a  purpose  in  it,  viz., 
to  know  what  was  going  on  in  Paris.  Perhaps  strolling 
about  the  streets  was  not  the  best  way  to  find  out,  but 
none  better  occurred  to  me. 

In  these  walks  I  was  continually  stumbling  on  objects 
of  interest,  or  chancing  on  some  little  adventure.  I  would 
sometimes  drop  quietly  into  the  little  shop  of  the  charbon 
and  faggot-vender,  and  listen  to  the  history  of  his  trials 
and  struggles — for  all  charbon  and  faggot-venders,  be  it 
known,  have  their  trials  and  struggles ; — besides,  I  was 
interested  to  learn  the  cause  of  the  extravagant  price  of 
fuel,  for  in  cold  weather  our  pockets  were  nearly  drained 
in  the  attempt  to  make  ourselves  comfortable. 

I  frequently  introduced  myself  into  the  little  niche, 
where  a  smiling,  cheerful,  and  vivacious  cobbler  ham- 
mered away  from  morning  to  night  under  the  protection 


JACQUES  TOURNEAU  103 

of  the  Holy  Virgin,  whose  image,  adorned  daily  with 
fresh  garlands,  was  placed  directly  over  the  entrance. 

A  rare  fellow  was  Jacques  Tourneau,  with  whom 
the  world  always  wagged  happily  and  well:  with  a 
pleasant  word  for  every  body,  a  joke  for  all  occasions, 
and  keen  perceptions  to  season  it,  with  a  good-tempered 
wife,  (taking  his  word  for  it,)  and  half-a-dozen  healthy 
children,  Jacques  was,  all  things  considered,  the  hap- 
piest fellow  I  met  in  Paris.  I  learned  many  philosoph- 
ical lessons  from  Jacques  Tourneau. 

Occasionally  I  would  stroll  into  a  church  and  see  what 
sort  of  persons  in  Paris  were  devout.  Then,  perhaps, 
I  would  take  a  walk  in  the  gardens  of  the  Luxembourg, 
for  I  confined  myself,  generally,  to  our  own  side  of 
the  river.  I  confess  that  the  gardens  attracted  me 
greatly.  A  great  variety  one  could  see  there.  Old,  and 
middle-aged,  and  young,  with  scores  of  children,  sitting, 
walking,  running,  frolicking.  A  rare  place  for  me  were 
these  gardens  of  the  Luxembourg! 

Then,  again,  the  Hotel  des  Invalides:  I  have  passed 
hours  quietly  watching  the  veterans  who  lounge  about 
the  grounds.  Especially  can  I  now  call  to  mind  a 
sturdy  old  fellow,  with  two  wooden  legs,  and  but  one 
arm,  and  marks  of  many  a  cut  upon  his  face,  who  used 
to  sit  just  two  hours  every  day  on  one  of  the  stone 
benches,  in  the  Place  de  Vauban,  fronting  the  Hotel, 


104      ROMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

and  who,  with  countenance  calm  and  unmoved,  placidly 
contemplated  whatever  passed  around  him.  I  never  saw 
him  exchange  a  word  with  a  brother  soldier,  although 
frequently  seated  on  the  same  bench.  Had  I  not  feared 
some  misinterpretation  of  my  motives,  I  would  have 
addressed  him.  But  there  was  something  hi  those 
truncated  limbs,  and  in  that  scarred  visage,  which  for- 
bade an  ordinary  intrusion. 

The  inmates  of  the  HoteLdes  Invalides  wear  no  appear- 
ance of  disappointment  or  discontent.  They  feel  that  it 
is  an  honour  to  be  pensioners  of  France ;  so  that  one 
beholds  no  forlorn  looks,  no  depressed  glances,  nothing, 
in  short,  of  that  unpleasant  expression  of  countenance 
which  is  almost  always  observed  in  retreats  for  the 
decrepit  and  the  old. 

The  stranger  who  visits  the  chapel  of  the  Invalides 
will  encounter  few  of  the  inmates,  unless  at  the  time 
of  service ;  but  there  are  always  a  small  number  who 
can  be  seen  kneeling,  repeating  a  prayer,  or  going 
through  with  their  Ave,  Credo,  or  Confiteor.  After  a 
"fitful  fever"  of  marches  and  assaults,  of  sieges,  sorties, 
and  pitched  fields,  of  fierce  pursuits  and  sullen  retreats, 
of  bloody  defeats  and  bloodier  victories,  it  is  a  touch- 
ing sight  to  behold  the  soldier  kneeling  before  the 
cross,  asking  forgiveness  and  absolution. 

I    observed   an    elderly   officer,  who    appeared    much 


THE   MELANCHOLY   OFFICER.  105 

superior  to  the  majority  of  his  confreres,  and  who 
came  very  regularly  to  the  chapel.  He  was  about 
fifty,  tall  and  slender,  with  a  serious  countenance,  and 
an  air  of  habitual  depression.  He  used  to  kneel  with 
so  much  devoutness,  and  repeat  the  prayers  so  earnest- 
ly, and  afterwards  come  away  with  a  look  so  melan- 
choly, that  it  touched  me  to  the  heart  to  witness  it. 
He  had  not  been  wounded,  so  far  as  I  could  see;  he 
had  lost  none  of  his  limbs,  but  his  face  was  pale  and 
wasted,  and  loose,  straggling  gray  hairs  were  scattered 
over  his  forehead. 

How  much  it  adds  to  the  intenseness  with  which  we 
regard  misfortune  or  calamity,  to  separate  some  individual 
object,  and  fix  our  attention  on  it !  I  believe  one  could 
easily  become  utterly  miserable  by  this  very  process. 
I  have  myself,  in  this  way,  on  many  occasions,  been 
made  wretched  enough,  and  only  escaped  by  turning  to 
the  brighter  scenes  of  life.  So  it  is  always;  light  and 
shade — light  and  shade  again.  But  without  light  and 
shadow  can  there  be  a  picture  ?  There  is,  at  the  same 
time,  a  fascination  in  the  contemplation  of  great  suffering 
difficult  to  explain.  Perhaps  it  may  be  traced  to  the 
unconscious  sympathy  we  feel  with  whatever  is  intense, 
whether  it  be  ecstatic  or  agonizing,  and  which  underlies 
almost  every  other  emotion 

On  one  occasion,  in  turning  to  leave  the  chapel,  when 


106     ROMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

I  was  standing  near  the  door,  the  melancholy  officer  of 
whom  I  have  spoken  dropped  his  handkerchief.  I  picked 
it  up,  and  observed,  as  I  took  it  in  my  hand,  that  it  was 
of  a  description  used  only  by  ladies.  I  stepped  at  once 
towards  the  owner,  and  gently  touching  his  arm,  I  said : 

"Your  handkerchief,  sir." 

A  faint,  hectic  blush  overspread  his  cheeks. 

He  seized  it  almost  eagerly,  gazed  at  it  an  instant 
with  much  tenderness,  as  though  it  were  some  dear 
object,  and  put  it  in  his  bosom;  then  taking  my  hand 
in  both  of  his  he  pressed  it  silently. 

"I  am  very  glad,"  said  I,  "that  I  discovered  it  in 
time." 

"  It  was  my  wife's." 

His  lip  quivered  slightly,  but  he  showed  no  other 
signs  of  emotion.  Still  he  retained  my  hand. 

"Forgive  me,"  I  exclaimed,  "I  have  intruded  on 
feelings  which  are  sacred." 

"Monsieur  shows  that  he  has  a  heart." 

He  pressed  my  hand  once  more,  bowed  low,  and 
walked  away. 

I  do  not  think  I  can  ever  forget  that  old  French 
officer.  Although  I  used  frequently  to  see  him  after  this 
occurrence,  I  never  accosted  him  again.  Yet  I  busied 
myself,  at  times,  imagining  what  had  been  his  peculiar 
griefs. 


THE   MELANCHOLY   OFFICER  107 

His  wife.  It  was  his  wife's  handkerchief.  Her  mem- 
ory  was  all  he  had  to  cling  to.  Children  none:  rela- 
tives none.  She  had  been  to  him  his  sole  and  only 
friend,  and  she  was  gone.  That  was  it.  Perhaps — I 
carried  my  conjectures  further — perhaps  he  had  not  been 
as  affectionate,  as  constant,  as  kind,  while  she  lived,  as 
he  now  felt  he  ought  to  have  been,  and,  like  too  many 
who  do  not 

" understand  a  treasure's  worth 


Till  time  has  stolen  away  the  slighted  good," 

he  had  appreciated  her  too  late.  Perhaps  he  was  now 
tortured  by  a  recollection  of  her  last  sad,  yet  not  re- 
proachful look,  and  cherished,  as  a  part  of  his  existence,  a 
tender  though  unavailing  remorse.  But  whatever  might 
be  his  personal  history,  I  felt  an  assurance  that  his 
daily  prayers  and  supplications  were  not  put  up  in 
vain. 

I  have  mentioned  the  gardens.  The  most  joyous 
sight  to  be  met  with  in  Paris,  is  that  of  the  children 
who  congregate  there;  hopping,  running,  skipping,  play- 
ing puss-puss-in-the-corner,  (a  tree  for  each  corner,)  and 
even  blind-man's-buff.  As  my  friend  Clements  remarked, 
it  always  seems  as  if  French  children  were  very  pre- 
cocious to  have  acquired  a  foreign  language  so  young. 

There   was  one  charming,  ruddy,  brown-haired  little 


108      KOMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

creature,  about  four  years  of  age,  who  interested  me 
greatly.  She  was  so  full  of  childish  spirits ;  her  laugh 
was  so  clear  and  so  mirthful ;  her  voice,  though  infantile, 
was  so  sweet,,  and  her  motions  so  light  and  airy,  as  she 
flew  from  spot  to  spot,  that  I  became  absolutely  fasci- 
nated. An  elderly  woman,  plainly  dressed  in  black,  sat 
always  on  one  of  the  benches  near  by,  engaged  usually 
with  her  needle,  or  in  knitting.  I  observed  that  she 
watched  the  child's  movements  continually,  with  eyes 
beaming  with  affection.  Could  she  be  the  mother? 
Certainly  not.  The  nurse,  perhaps?  No.  I  was  not 
satisfied  to  call  her  the  nurse.  She  did  not  wear  the 
expression  which  smacks  of  service,  and  which  is  gene- 
rally unmistakable. 

I  seated  myself  one  day  on  the  same  bench  with 
the  good  dame.  "What  a  beautiful  little  child!"  was 
my  first  observation  to  her. 

"Which  one,  Monsieur?" — She  knew  very  well,  with- 
out asking. 

I  pointed  out  my  favourite,  who,  with  several  of  her 
playmates,  was  frolicking  a  few  steps  from  us. 

"  Ah,  that  is  my  little  Annie,  my  grand-daughter." 

"Indeed!  and  its  mother?" 

"She  is  all  I  have  left,  Monsieur" 

The  French  have  more  delicacy  than  any  other  peo- 
ple in  conveying  a  melancholy  idea. 


LITTLE   ANNIE.  109 

"  How  you  must  love  the  little  creature !"  I  exclaimed, 
involuntarily. 

"Indeed,  Monsieur"  she  replied,  "I  see  my  lost 
Annie  living  her  life  over  again;  she  is  the  very 
same,  just  as  she  looked,  just  as  she  acted." 

At  this  instant  little  Annie  ran  up,  and  bounding 
into  the  old  lady's  lap,  cried,  "Mamma,  I  have  some- 
thing to  tell  you — hold  down  your  face ;"  with  that  she 
gave  the  ear,  which  was  thus  brought  within  reach,  a  sly 
pinch,  slid  down,  and  darted  away;  she  returned  almost 
in  the  same  moment,  resumed  her  place,  kissed  the 
"  poor  little  ear,"  as  she  called  it,  and  once  more  ran  off. 

"Just  as  I  was  saying  to  you,  sir,  she  has  all  her 
mother's  sweet  ways,  and  I  have  taught  her  to  call  me 

'mamma,'  and  it  seems but  no,  I  cannot  lose  sight 

of  my  child,  my  first  Annie,  who  was  like  this  one, 
and  who  grew  up  to  be  a  girl,  and  then  to  be  a 
wdman " 

The  old  lady's  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

"And  she  died?" 

"  Her  husband  died  first.  That  nearly  killed  her. 
Then  she  took  a  fever.  I  did  all  I  could — nothing 
availed.  I  nursed  her — I  gave  her  every  thing  with 
my  own  hands,  and  she  would  say,  '  My  mother, 
do  not  do  this,  you  will  fatigue  yourself;  I  feel  easier 
now;  go — do  go,  and  get  some  rest.'  But  I  could  not 


110      ROMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

leave  her.  Sometimes  she  made  me  recline  on  her  bed, 
and  put  my  arms  around  her,  and  then  she  would  look 
into  my  face  and  smile.  Oh,  could  you  but  have  seen 

that  smile! Alas!  nothing  could 

save  her.  We  had  a  noted  physician  from  the  Hotel 
Dieu:  he  would  come  two  or  three  times  a  day,  and 
take  hold  of  Annie's  hand  and  say,  'My  poor  child, 
what  makes  you  so  sick1?'  Then  he  would  encourage 
her,  and  speak  so  kindly  that  I  could  have  fallen  on 
my  knees  and  blessed  him.  He  was  with  us  when  she 
died;  he  wept  like  a  child,  and " 

The  recital  was  too  much  for  the  poor  woman.  She 
placed  both  hands  before  her  face,  vainly  endeavouring  to 
prevent  the  tears,  when  little  Annie,  happening  to  see 
it,  ran  towards  her,  all  in  a  glow  as  she  was,  and, 
springing  into  her  favourite  place,  threw  her  arms 
around  her  grandmother's  neck,  and  by  every  term 
of  endearment  and  affection,  by  kisses  and  caresses,  at- 
tempted to  moderate  her  grief. 

It  was  more  than  I  could  endure.  I  turned  and 
walked  hastily  from  the  spot;  my  eyes  were  moist  too, 
and  once  away  from  observation,  I  drew  my  handker- 
chief from  my  pocket  and  wiped  them. 


STUDENTS'  NONSENSE.        Ill 


CHAPTER   V. 

STUDENTS'    NONSENSE. 

A  CLEVER  knot  of  young  fellows  were  assembled 
around  the  door  which  led  into  the  garden  adjoining  the 
house  in  the  rue  Copeau.  I  do  not  know  why  students 
are  so  much  in  the  habit  of  congregating  around  the 
threshold  of  an  outer  door.  Such  is  the  fact  undeniably. 
Who  will  undertake  to  explain  it? 

It  was  a  fine,  pleasant  day,  in  the  fall  of  the  year. 
The  leaves  were  beginning  to  drop  off,  and  the  air  was 
autumnal.  One  by  one,  as  they  left  the  salle-a-manger, 
the  young  men  passed  out  into  the  garden  with  pipes, 
meerschaums,  and  segars;  some  with  books  in  their 
hands:  most  wore  caps,  but  a  hat  here  and  there  could 
be  seen  on  the  head  of  some  resolute  American,  who  in 
this  way  showed  his  contempt  for  prevailing  customs. 

Of  the  company,  one  was  a  Pole,  two  were  English, 
three  American,  two  German ;  there  were  also  an  Italian, 
an  Irishman,  and  a  Genoese,  besides  several  the  place  of 
whose  nativity  had  never  transpired.  They  were,  for  the 


112      ROMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

most  part,  diligent  students,  somewhat  reckless  of  the 
ordinary  demands  of  society,  but  having  a  decided  pur- 
pose in  view.  The  majority  were  studying  medicine. 

The  Irishman  was  a  Roman  Catholic,  and  devoted  him- 
self to  theology.  His  name  was  James  Daloney.  Where 
he  now  is,  I  do  not  know.  He  was  about  taking  orders, 
and  is,  doubtless,  labouring  some  where  in  his  holy  calling. 
Should  his  eye  chance  to  fall  upon  this  page,  I  beg  to 
send  him  a  friendly  greeting,  for  I  am  sure  he  will  not 
have  forgotten  his  sojourn  in  the  rue  Copeau,  nor  his 
companions  there. 

One  of  the  Germans  was  named  Franz  von  Herberg. 
He  was  a  painter,  devoted- soul  and  body  to  his  art.  He 
was  open-hearted  and  sincere,  somewhat  sensitive  to  criti- 
cism, refined  in  character,  of  an  exquisite  humour,  yet 
subject  to  frequent  depression  of  spirits. 

The  other  German,  Jacob  Wahlen,  was  a  student  of 
philosophy,  full  of  mysticism  and  Spinoza. 

The  Italian  and  Genoese — so  they  were  always  named 
— came  to  the  house  together,  and  were  much  in  each 
other's  society.  They  had  incurred,  I  imagine,  in  some 
way,  the  resentment  of  their  respective  governments, 
and  were  now  exiled. 

The  two  Englishmen  were  as  unlike  each  other  as  was 
possible  for  two  persons  to  be.  One  was  conceited,  and 
a  cockney ;  the  other  was  my  delightful  friend,  Clements. 


A  GOOD  SHOT.  113 

Vincent  Partridge,  and  myself,  with  three  or  four 
others,  completed  the  group. 

"  What  is  the  news  to-day  ?"  said  Vincent.  "  Has 
any  one  been  on  the  other  side  1  is  Louis  Philippe  re- 
covering ?" 

No  one  knew. 

"I  was  down  in  the  country  yesterday,"  said  the 
cockney.  "  Lord  Koslin,  the  brother-in-law  of  the  cousin 
of  our  ambassador,  invited  me.  'Pon  my  word,  we  had 
such  a  capital  time.  I  am  to  go  out  shooting  with  him  next 
month — such  a  box  as  he's  got:  he's  such  a  sportsman, 
too ;  he  told  me  he  shot  thirty-three  hares  in  England  one 
morning  before  breakfast." 

"  He  must  have  been  firing  at  a  wig,"  said  Partridge. 

A  general  laugh  followed  this  sally,  which  the  other 
did  not  seem  to  comprehend,  for  he  went  on  in  the  same 
tone,  not  heeding  the  interruption. 

"By  the  way,  Franz,  when  are  we  to  see  the  new 
painting  ?"  asked  I. 

"  Never,  I  fear,"  said  Franz ;  "  I  have  tried  to  paint  the 
man,  and " 

"  You  can't  get  the  right  expression,  I  suppose,"  said 
Daloney. 

" Go  to  the  Morgue"  said  one. 

"  Or  to  the  public  executioner." 

"  You  should  have  been  here  in  '30,"  said  the  Italian  ; 


114      ROMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

"  that  would  have  been  a  time  for  taking  dead  men  in  all 
shapes." 

"  Gentlemen,  you  don't  understand  me.  You  speak  as 
if  I  wanted  to  get  upon  my  canvass  the  characteristics  of 
death  ;  that,  I  admit,  I  can  find  where  you  suggest :  but  it 
is  the  living  expression  which  sometimes  lingers  on  the 
face  after  death  that  I  would  transfer.  Bah!  'tis  not  so 
easy  to  put  the  two  things  together." 

"  That's  not  the  only  disappointment  which  Franz  has 
met  with  lately,  hi  putting  two  things  together,"  said 
Daloney. 

"  Ah !  how  is  that  ?"  cried  several. 

"  Why,  our  friend  here  undertook  to  paint  a  cow  and 
a  cabbage  on  the  same  canvass,  and  both  were  so  natural 
that  he  had  to  separate  them." 

"  Bravo  !  bravo  !  Daloney  ;"  and  there  was  a  general 
shout. 

"  Daloney,"  said  Vincent,  gravely,  "  take  my  hat.  I 
never  will  wear  one  again." 

"It  comes  in  good  time,"  whispered  Clements,  loud 
enough  to  be  heard  by  the  whole  party,  while  Daloney 
gave  him  a  glance  to  be  silent. 

"  No,  no ;  it  is  too  good  to  be  lost,"  said  the  other. 
"You  must  know,  gentlemen,  that  yesterday  our  friend 
treated  himself  to  a  new  hat ;  price,  nine  francs,  fifteen 
sous,  and  two  centimes.  Instead  of  coming  home,  like  a 


THE   NEW  HAT. — THE  JUGGLER.          115 

rational  creature,  to 'his  dinner,  he  wanders  into  the  rue 
Rivoli,  dines,  takes  cafe,  and  rises  to  depart.  His  hat  is 
missing ;  he  looks  about  quietly ;  he  is  sure  he  placed  it 
on  the  seat  just  behind  him ;  he  looks  again ;  he  discerns 
a  dirty  piece  of  paper  with  two  lines  scrawled  on  it ;  he 
picks  it  up  and  reads  as  follows : 

" '  I  have  taken  your  new  hat — but  I  leave  you  my 
eternal  gratitude.' " 

Another  general  laugh  succeeded  Clements's  narration. 

"  You  have  interpolated,"  said  Daloney ;  "  there  was 
not  one  word  about  gratitude,  else  I  had  been  satisfied ; 
there  was  nothing,  in  short,  for  my  fine  beaver,  but  an  old 
shabby,  torn  specimen  of  a  chapeau,  not  fit  for  the  beasts 
of  the  field  to  wear." 

"  They  would  look  well  in  hats,  to  be  sure,"  said 
Vincent ;  "  don't  you  think  so,  professor  ?"  turning  to 
Wahlen. 

"I  don't  think,  so  soon  after  dinner.  It  disturbs  my 
digestion." 

"  How  solemn  you  grow !  Pray,  Franz,  let's  have  the 
story  about  Wahlen's  going  to  see  the  juggler." 

"  Jfo — jtt — y°u  may  te^  ft  m  welcome,"  said  Wahlen, 
seriously,  "  if  it  will  pleasure  the  company." 

''  Oh,  do  let's  have  it,  Franz,"  cried  half-a-dozen. 

"  I  can  give  it  in  word.  Wahlen  and  I  went  to  see  a 
juggler  who  exhibited  on  the  corner  near  the  Odeon.  We 


116      ROMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

had  front  seats.  In  the  course  of  the  performance  he  asks 
some  person  to  step  on  the  stage  to  assist  in  a  piece  of 
diablerie.  He  beckons  Wahlen,  who  at  that  moment  was 
thinking  of  any  thing  but  what  was  going  on.  Wahlen 
starts  at  once.  Among  other  things,  he  asks  Wahlen  to 
hand  him  a  napoleon.  'You  see,'  cries  the  juggler,  ad- 
dressing the  audience,  '  this  gentleman  hands  me  a  napo- 
leon. I  put  it  in  my  pocket.  Now  let  every  one  watch 
me  narrowly.  Siberah,  Vibberah,  Tinlentuncleristhatch — 
Presto,  Voila!  The  gentleman  will  tell  you  it  is  in  his 
pocket  again,'  appealing  to  Wahlen,  who  was  at  that 
moment  deep  in  Fichte,  or  Jacob  Boehme,  and  was 
startled  into  saying,  '  Yes,'  before  he  knew  he  had  said 
any  thing.  The  juggler,  with  most  triumphant  air,  now 
moved  our  friend  to  take  his  seat." 

"'Please  return  me  my  napoleon,'"  said  Wahlen. 

"  '  Swindler  !'  exclaimed  the  juggler,  in  a  low  but  reso- 
lute tone,  'have  you  not  said  publicly  that  you  had  it 
back  again  ?  If  you  make  the  slightest  disturbance,  I  will 
have  you  turned  out  of  the  house.' " 

"And  I  made  no  disturbance,"  interrupted  Wahlen, 
"  for  two  reasons.  First,  I  was  properly  punished  for 
forgetting  where  I  was,  and  what  I  was  doing  ;  and, 
secondly,  the  juggler's  unparalleled  audacity  deserved  its 
reward." 

"  Ah !  Jacob  Wahlen,"  said  Vincent,  pleasantly,  "  you 


A  DANGEROUS  SUGGESTION.  117 

are  a  perfect  mystery.  You  will  become  in  due  time  a 
great  German  professor,  and  when  you  die — distant  be  the 
day — you  will  doubtless  say,  as  your  admired  Hegel  said, 
'  I  shall  leave  behind  me  but  one  man  who  understands  my 
doctrines,  and  he  does  not  understand  them.' " 

"Perhaps,"  ejaculated  Jacob  Wahlen;  and  having 
uttered  this  single  word  in  reply,  he  was  again  deep  in 
his  philosophical  revery, 

Here  three  or  four  of  the  company  went  across  to  the 
billiard-room. 

"Well,  Franz,  are  we  not  to  see  the  picture  after 
all?"  said  the  Italian. 

"  I  tell  you  the  truth,  Signer  Italiano,  I  cannot  paint 
it.  I  have  sketched  and  rubbed  out,  and  sketched  again 
— it's  of  no  use." 

"Why  don't  you  do  what  some  of  your  craft  have 
done  before  you  ?" 

"What  is  that?" 

"  Drive  a  trifling  bargain  with  the  old  gentleman  down 
stairs." 

"I  won't  do  that.  I  believe  in  the  devil,  but  don't 
think  him  a  good  artist — he  colours  too  highly." 

"You  must  admit  he  draws  well,"  said  Vincent. 

"  He's  not  the  subject  for  a  joke,  at  any  rate,"  replied 
Franz. 

"Franz  is  low-spirited,  I  do  believe." 


118     ROMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

"Supposing  he  is,"  said  Clements,  "it  is  as  it  should 
be.  You  know  the  saying — 'Melancholy  is  the  charac- 
teristic of  the  German  —  wit  of  the  Frenchman  —  gal- 
lantry of  the  Spaniard — love  of  the  Italian — and,  I  am 
almost  too  modest  to  add — sense  of  the  Englishman." 

"While  a  happy  combination  of  all,  you  find  only 
m  the  American — ahem,"  said  Vincent,  laughing.  "  But 
come,  Franz,  permit  us  to  run  up  into  your  rooms 
and  see  what  you  have  done." 

"You  shall,  with  pleasure,  but  the  picture  I  cannot 
show  you." 

Three  or  four  of  us  accordingly  followed  our  friend 
to  the  top  of  the  house,  where,  of  course,  we  had  been 
often  before.  The  appearance  of  the  room  was  like  that 
of  every  artist.  One  beheld  the  usual  arrangement  for 
light,  the  easel,  stands  for  paints,  &c.,  one  or  two  un- 
finished pictures  about  the  room,  a  few  exquisite  old 
paintings,  and  several  pieces  placed  on  the  floor  and 
turned  to  the  wall. 

"Now,  won't  you  change  your  determination  and 
show  us  the  picture,  although  it  be  unfinished?"  said 
Vincent. 

As  he  said  this,  he  took  hold  of  one  of  the  larger 
pieces  of  canvass  which  was  placed  to  face  the  wall, 
and,  I  imagine  quite  involuntarily,  turned  it  around. 

An  exclamation   of  horror  fell  from  every  one,  sue- 


SCENE   WITH   THE  ARTIST.  119 

ceeded  by  a  breathless  silence  as  our  eyes  were  fixed 
as  if  by  enchantment  on  the  painting. 

It  was  that  of  a  young  girl,  no  more  than  seventeen, 
— having  a  classical  face,  with  dark  hair  and  eyes.  In 
saying  this  I  have  said  nothing.  It  was  the  expression 
which  made  the  painting  what  it  was ;  and  yet  there 
was  no  expression  which  one  should  recognise  as  human : 
and  as  for  the  eyes,  they  seemed,  while  you  looked  at 
them,  to  creep  into  you. 

While  we  were  thus  standing  transfixed,  Franz  rushed 
forward,  and  seizing  the  picture  turned  it  back  again, 
exclaiming,  "  For  Heaven's  sake,  not  that — not  that !" 

"  Ah,  my  dear  fellow,  you  are  not  yourself  this  even- 
ing ;  we  will  not  tease  you  any  more, — but  pray  tell  us 
what  moves  you  so  ?"  I  said. 

"The  fact  is,  the  black  dog  has  been  sitting  all  day 
on  my  left  shoulder,  as  my  Scotch  friend  Macdonald 
used  to  say.  I  do  not  know  why  or  wherefore;  and 
now  you  have  turned  around  that  picture,  which  has 
not  been  touched  for  a  twelvemonth,  I  shall  carry  two 
black  dogs  instead  of  one — perhaps  it  will  help  to  bal- 
ance the  load.  At  any  rate,  I  will  show  you  the  unfin- 
ished thing  you  came  to  see,  although  I  said  I  wouldn't. 
It  will  create  a  diversion  at  least." 

"No,  Franz,"  said  Clements,  "you  did  not  wish  us 
to  see  it,  and  we  will  not  look  at  it.  But  we  have  a 


120      ROMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

request  to  make — I  think  I  can  speak  for  the  rest.  We 
want  to  know  if  the  picture  we  have  just  seen  is  drawn 
from  life?" 

"I  perceive,"  replied  Franz,  in  a  more  cheerful  tone, 
"that  there  is  no  escape  for  me.  Whoever  sees  that 
picture  once,  never  rests  till  every  thing  is  told.  For 
this  reason,  I  always  keep  it  with  the  face  to  the  wall, 
and  usually  with  something  thrown  over  it$  and,  as  I 
told  you,  I  have  not  seen  it  before  for  a  twelvemonth." 

"How  could  you  ever  have  painted  it?" 

"  Me  ?n  replied  the  artist,  with  a  look  of  terror. 
"  Mother  of  Heaven !  I  did  not  paint  it !  No,  not  I." 
And  Franz  von  Herberg  stared  at  us  for  a  moment  as 
if  he  had  forgotten  who  we  were.  He  quickly  recovered, 
and  said,  hastily,  "Sit  down — sit  down;  you  shall  hear 
what  I  have  to  tell  about  that  painting.  But,  in  the  first 
place,  let  me  ask  if  any  one  of  you  wishes  to  examine  it 
more  closely  ;  if  so,  you  are  to  do  it  before  I  commence, 
for  when  I  have  finished  you  must  not  ask  to  see  it." 

No  one  expressed  the  least  desire  for  another  look : 
so  fearful,  I  may  say  so  terrible,  was  the  effect  of  the 
first  sight  upon  each  one  of  us.  Whereupon  Franz  took 
the  picture,  and,  without  changing  the  position,  placed 
it  in  his  closet,  and  threw  a  quantity  of  loose  papers 
over  the  canvass.  Then  bolting  the  door,  he  drew  his 
chair  towards  us,  and  commenced  as  follows: 


THE   TERRIBLE   PICTURE.  121 


CHAPTER   VI. 

THE    TERRIBLE     PICTURE. 

"  LIFE  is  not  a  particular  form  of  body,  but  the  body 
is  a  particular  form  of  life.  The  body  relates  to  the  soul 
as  the  word  to  the  thought."  So  says  old  Jacobi.  He 
did  not  address  artists,  but  artists  may  learn  a  lesson 
from  the  saying.  So  may  you,  Messieurs  students  of 
medicine.  For  myself,  I  always  carry  it  in  my  head. 

I  don't  know  why  I  commence  by  quoting  Friedrich 
Jacobi,  when  I  am  to  tell  you  about  Ernst  von  Wolzogen, 
except  that  it  was  a  favourite  saying  of  Ernst,  and  since— 
but  no  matter. 

Ernst  and  myself  were  born  in  the  same  village. 
He  was  but  a  year  older  than  I,  and  we  were  placed 
at  the  same  school  together.  From  his  childhood,  Ernst 
manifested  a  strong  love  for  his  art.  At  that  period 
I  had  but  little  idea  of  it,  and  I  owe  to  my  intimacy 
with  him  my  taste  for  painting.  With  a  handsome 
person,  eyes  black  and  piercing,  with  long,  dark  hair, 

and  a  magnificent  brow,  he  certainly  was  the  handsomest 
G 


122      ROMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

fellow  I  ever  saw.  As  an  artist,  he  was  bold,  independent, 
full  of  original  conception,  no  imitator,  no  copyist,  no 
follower  of  any  school,  although  he  appreciated,  as  much 
as  any  one,  the  works  of  the  great  Masters,  as  they  are 
called.  From  the  first,  he  was  remarkable  for  throwing 
the  very  living  thing  itself  upon  the  canvass,  in  a  manner 
which  would  astonish  us  all.  There  might  be  errors — 
there  were  errors,  of  one  kind  and  another, — but,  for 
all  that,  the  thing  itself  stood  before  you.  It  mattered 
little  whether  it  was  a  portrait,  or  a  landscape,  or  a 
historical  piece ;  the  effect  was  produced.  When  certain 
faults  were  pointed  out  to  him,  he  would  say,  "I  know 
it — I  perceive  it — I  will  mend  it  by  and  by  ;  but  first 
I  must  see  that  my  picture  is  alive,  that  it  is  real. 
'  Life  is  not  a  particular  form  of  body,'  &c. ;  the  rest 
will  come  soon  enough.  We  must  have  patience.  It 
will  come." 

Away  from  his  easel,  Ernst  von  Wolzogen  was  dreamy 
and  superstitious.  He  was  susceptible,  too,  but  very 
shy,  so  that  before  he  was  one-and-twenty  he  had  fallen 
in  love  and  had  his  heart  broken  a  dozen  times  with- 
out so  much  as  speaking  to  his  inamoratas.  Once  at 
his  labours,  however,  all  the  unhappy  mists  which  gath- 
ered about  his  brain  were  dispelled ;  then,  and  then  only, 
he  was  really  himself. 

"  ART,  my  dear  Franz,"  he  would  exclaim,  "  Art  be- 


THE   TERRIBLE   PICTURE.  123 

longs  to  man  only.     In  Art  there  is  no  divided  empire :" 
and  he  would  triumphantly  recite  those  lines  of  Schiller : 

In  diligent  toil  thy  master  is  the  bee : 

In  craft  mechanical,  the  worm  that  creeps 

Through  earth  its  dexterous  way,  may  tutor  thee ; 

In  knowledge,  (could'st  thou  fathom  all  its  deeps,) 

All  to  the  Seraph  are  already  known : 

But  thine,  0  MAN,  is  ART — thine  wholly  and  alone ! 

I  have  said  he  was  superstitious.  I  can  hardly  ex- 
pect to  be  credited  if  I  tell  you  what  a  slave  he  became 
to  all  sorts  of  signs  and  omens  and  prognostications. 
He  believed,  too,  in  presentiments  and  warnings.  He 
credited  ghost  stories  and  tales  of  apparitions,  and  main- 
tained that,  were  it  not  for  our  gross  organization,  we 
should  all  enjoy  the  privilege  of  second  sight,  and  I  do 
not  know  what  else.  This  had  a  very  unhappy  effect 
on  him — an  effect  I  was  quite  unable  to  counteract,  al- 
though we  were  bosom  companions  and  had  been  almost 
inseparable  from  the  time  we  commenced  our  studies. 

"My  friends,"  continued  the  artist  passionately,  after 
a  moment's  pause,  "I  loved  Ernst.  I  loved  him  for 
these  very  weaknesses,  which  betokened  a  spirit  far 
removed  from  this  earth.  Beyond  every  thing,  I  loved 
him  for  his  appreciation  of  our  artist-life,  and  for  having 
roused  my  soul  to  a  proper  sense  of  it." 

As  I  had  much  more  of  the  practical  in  my  composi- 


124      ROMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

tion  than  my  friend,  it  fell  to  me  to  look  after  the 
economy  of  our  every-day  life,  while  he  endeavoured 
to  carry  me  along  with  him  in  the  rapid  strides  he  was 
making  in  his  art.  We  went  over  Europe  in  company. 
We  dwelt  together  in  Rome,  in  Florence,  in  Naples,  in 
Vienna,  in  Munich,  in  Dresden,  in  Paris.  We  accom- 
panied each  other  to  see  paintings  and  statues,  and,  in 
short,  every  thing  worthy  of  examination. 

We  had  spent  some  time  at  Dresden,  and  Ernst 
was  becoming  more  and  more  subject  to  the  unfortunate 
influences  I  have  named.  I  proposed,  therefore,  as  an 
agreeable  change,  that  we  should  go  to  Paris,  and  take 
apartments  in  a  pleasant  part  of  the  town,  and  thus  try 
the  effect  of  gay  and  lively  scenes.  There  was  at  the 
same  time  a  painting  in  the  Louvre — a  landscape  by 
Annibal  Carracci,  which  had  lately  been  transferred  to 
that  palace,  which  we  both  wanted  to  see. 

We  came  to  Paris,  and  took  rooms  in  the  rue  de  la 
Paix.  The  first  morning  after  our  arrival,  Ernst  started 
out  alone  to  take  a  stroll  through  the  gallery  of  the 
Louvre,  in  order,  as  he  said,  to  report  about  the  "  land- 
scape." He  promised  to  return  in  an  hour  or  two ;  but 
he  did  not  come  back  till  quite  late  in  the  afternoon. 
He  was  in  a  state  of  most  cheerful  excitement.  He  had 
not  looked  at  the  "  landscape,"  but  he  had  seen  the  most 
exquisite  of  all  living  pictures. 


THE   TERRIBLE   PICTURE.  125 

Ernst  was  always  extravagant  when  describing  his 
favourites,  but  he  now  exceeded  any  thing  he  ever  before 
said  in  praise  of  female  perfection. 

"Her  name?" 

He  did  not  know — he  did  not  want  to  know.  He  only 
wanted  to  gaze  on  her,  to  be  inspired  by  her,  to  worship 
her. 

"  I  suppose,"  I  said,  "  I  may  be  permitted  to  visit  the 
gallery  and  steal  a  single  glance  at  the  fair  one." 

"  Indeed,"  replied  Franz,  "  you  must  see  her ;  other- 
wise you  have  a  right  to  think  me  beside  myself." 

The  next  day  we  went  to  the  gallery  together.  We 
passed  nearly  half  way  through  the  hall  when  Ernst 
touched  my  arm. 

Seated  before  the  painting  by  Teniers,  of  the  "  Village 
Wedding,"  was  a  young  girl,  scarcely  more  than  seven- 
teen. Her  hat  and  shawl  and  gloves  were  laid  aside, 
and  she  herself  was  so  completely  absorbed  in  transfer- 
ring the  scene  to  her  canvass,  that  she  did  not  appear 
aware  of  any  thing  that  was  going  on  around  her. 

She  was  indeed  a  beautiful  creature — perfect,  it  would 
seem,  in  form  and  feature,  and  apparently  of  great  sim- 
plicity of  character ;  and  no  one  could  witness  the  enthu- 
siasm with  which  she  pursued  her  employment  without 
feeling  a  strong  interest  in  her.  A  man-servant,  in  plain 
livery,  stood  behind  her.  This  indicated  the  enjoyment 


126      ROMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

of  competent  means,  while  a  certain  indescribable  bearing 
evidenced  that  our  young  artiste  was  of  gentle  birth  and 
breeding. 

"  What  shall  I  do  ?"  whispered  Ernst.  "  I  must  turn 
copyist.  Let  us  see;  what  is  the  next  painting?  'The 
interior  of  a  smoking  tavern.'  Pshaw,  that  will  never 
do ;  but  on  the  other  side  1  Ah !  '  Diogenes  with  his 
lantern  looking  for  an  honest  man' — Rubens.  I'll  copy 
it.  By  Jove,  I'll  copy  it.  But  is  it  honourable  to  take 
such  an  opportunity  to  be  near  this  charming  creature  ? 
is  it  a  fair  advantage,  think  you  ?" 

"  Why  not  ?"  I  replied ;  "  surely,  we  may  admire  all 
the  portraits  here,  whether  on  canvass  or  not;  and  you 
have  certainly  a  right  to  select  your  position." 

I  wish  you  could  have  seen  the  work  Ernst  made  of 
copying  the  piece  he  sat  down  to.  Sometimes  his  Diogenes 
stood  out  with  long,  black  tresses,  and  a  delicate  lithe 
form :  again  the  cynic  would  absolutely  forget  his  lantern, 
and  at  another  time  omit  to  light  it.  Droll  business  was 
it  for  Ernst  von  Wolzogen,  already  the  pride  of  the 
younger  German  artists,  and  the  admiration  of  all  who 
saw  his  productions. 

The  young  girl,  meanwhile,  was  busily  engaged. 
Acute  as  the  sex  are  in  recognising  an  admirer,  I  do 
not  believe  she  had  any  thought  that  Ernst  was  other 
than  an  artist  intent  upon  his  copy,  so  single-hearted 


THE  TERRIBLE  PICTURE.       127 

was  she  in  her  own  pursuits.  But  this  could  not  last 
always.  The  "Village  Wedding"  was  finished,  and  our 
heroine,  after  an  absence  of  a  week — during  which  time 
Ernst  was  inconsolable — reappeared  at  the  Louvre,  and, 
selecting  a  picture  in  another  part  of  the  hall,  again 
commenced  her  labours.  It  was  a  landscape  by  Salvator 
Rosa,  a  painting  calculated  to  call  forth  all  her  enthusiasm, 
and  she  began  it  with  a  zeal  delightful  to  witness. 

"What  am  I  to  do  now?"  said  Ernst,  despairingly. 
"  Be  near  her  I  must — I  live  but  in  her  presence.  What 
will  become  of  me  ?" 

"  You  should  paint  her  ;  then  you  will  have  her  image 
to  worship." 

"  Ah !  would  I  had  the  right  to  do  so — but  I  will  not 
steal  a  portrait ;  I  should  despise  myself  for  ever  after." 

"  By  the  way,  where  is  your  Diogenes  ?" 

"That  is  a  most  excellent  joke.  It  is  the  only  funny 
part  of  the  affair.  My  Diogenes,  indeed !  No  one  after 
this  will  accuse  me  of  copying" 

"  But  what  have  you  done  with  it  1" 

"Done  with  it?  Nothing:  I  gave  it  to  Laurent  to 
amuse  his  children." 

"  Then  I  must  get  it  from  him.  I  will  give  him  two 
pieces,  much  more  suitable  for  children,  for  the  one  which 
he  has,  and  preserve  it  for  exhibition,  when  you  are 
renowned." 


ROMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

"But  that  does  me  no  good  now.  Let  me  reflect:  I 
do  not  dare  venture  again  to  copy  next  her;  she  would 
certainly  notice  it." 

"She  would  not:  and  that  is  why  I  admire  her." 

"  Well,  let  us  see,  then,  what  I  am  to  work  at." 
We  moved  toward  the  spot  where  the  girl  was  sitting. 

"The  dead  Christ." 

"I  will  not  place  myself  there,"  said  Ernst,  emphati. 
cally.  "  Why  will  artists  spend  their  labour  on  death  1 
as  if  representation  was  their  sole  work.  Believe  me,  it 
is  a  false  idea.  Life,  life  always.  We  have  nothing  to 
do  with  dead  bodies."  And  he  repeated  his  favourite 
quotation. 

"Look  on  the  other  side." 

"A  sketch  of  Paradise."  That  will  do.  The  living 
SAVIOUR  is  there.  This  I  will  endeavour  to  transfer,  and 
she  shall  inspire  me." 

A  short  time  after  this  conversation  I  went  to  Havre 
for  the  purpose  of  taking  leave  of  one  of  my  relations  who 
was  about  embarking  for  America.  I  was  absent  four 
days.  On  my  return,  I  met  Ernst  standing  at  the  entrance 
of  our  house ;  he  expressed  much  satisfaction  on  seeing 
me,  and  appeared,  I  think,  more  cheerful  than  usual. 

Here  Franz  von  Herberg  stopped  and  mused  for  a 
moment. 

Messieurs,    (he    continued,)     what     I    am    about    to 


THE  TERRIBLE   PICTURE.  129 

relate  was  told  me  by  Ernst  himself.  I  will  proceed 
and  take  up  the  story  from  the  time  of  my  leaving  for 
Havre,  until  my  return  to  Paris — a  period,  I  have  said, 
of  four  days. 

On  the  day  of  my  departure,  Ernst  went  as  usual 
to  the  Louvre,  and  took  his  accustomed  seat.  He  had 
really  done  something  towards  copying  Tintoret's  Paradise, 
and  was  certainly  much  improving  it.  I  have  it  now 
in  an  unfinished  state,  and  you  shall  see  it.  The  girl,  too, 
was  busy  with  her  pencil,  while  the  very  proximity  made 
Ernst  sufficiently  happy.  The  next  day  Ernst  resumed 
his  seat  at  the  usual  time,  but  the  young  girl  was  not 
there.  A  half-hour  passed  and  she  did  not  come.  Five 
minutes  more — Ernst  saw  her  walking  along  the  gallery. 
His  heart  beat  tumultuously.  He  could  scarcely  restrain 
his  emotion.  As  the  object  of  his  devotion  approached, 
he  perceived  that  she  was  not  accompanied  by  the  man- 
servant who  invariably  attended  her.  She  walked,  how- 
ever, rapidly  forward,  cast  an  uncertain  glance  around, 
then  placed  a  chair  for  herself,  and  arranged  for  her 
morning's  occupation.  Ernst  observed,  however,  that  her 
countenance  bore  a  troubled  look,  and  that  her  dress 
was  in  disorder,  and  some  parts  of  it  seemed  to  have  been 
recently  soiled  and  draggled  with  mud  from  the  street. 
She  continued  to  wear  both  hat  and  shawl.  This  of  itself 

would  scarcely  have  attracted  Ernst's  notice,  were  it  not 
6* 


130     ROMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

for  the  strange  appearance  which  the  young  girl  exhibited. 
So  much  was  he  carried  away  by  it,  that,  forgetting  his 
previous  resolution,  he  seized  his  pencil  and  commenced 
sketching  her. 

While  he  was  thus  engaged,  and  utterly  absorbed  in 
the  occupation,  the  subject  of  his  sketch  rose  and  stepped 
toward  him. 

Ernst  coloured  crimson,  and,  like  a  guilty  wretch,  un- 
consciously drew  aside  the  paper  on  which  he  was 
drawing. 

"  You  were  taking  me  ?"  she  said. 

"  On  my  honour,"  cried  Ernst,  deeply  moved,  "  on 
my  honour,  it  was  involuntary ;"  and  he  tore  the  paper  in 
pieces  to  prove  his  sincerity. 

"But  do  you  desire  to  paint  me?" 

Ernst  dared  not  raise  his  eyes.  His  first  impulse  was 
to  fall  at  her  feet  and  pour  out  his  soul  to  her,  for  the 
tone  in  which  she  asked  the  question  implied  a  willingness 
to  grant  the  favour. 

"  Do  you  desire  to  paint  me  ?"  she  repeated. 

"  I  would  ask  nothing  more  in  this  world,  could  I  have 
permission." 

"  It  is  granted.  But  you  must  come  noio.  I  can  give 
you  but  one  sitting." 

"I  will  attend  Mademoiselle  immediately." 

'•'Nay,  I  will  attend  you" 


THE  TERRIBLE   PICTURE.  131 

Ernst  hesitated. 

"Monsieur  is  losing  time." 

Ernst  von  Wolzogen  was  taken  by  surprise.  What 
could  it  mean?  Had  he  mistaken  the  character  of  his 
adored  object  1  No ;  he  could  swear — No  !  Was  it 
possible?  Had  she  discovered  his  secret  devotion,  and 
was  she  therefore  willing  to  show  him  this  favour  from 
a  sense  of  pity?  As  yet  Ernst  had  not  presumed  to 
look  at  her,  but  sat  spell-bound. 

"  We  lose  time,"  she  whispered  softly. 

Ernst  started  up,  and,  bowing  low,  led  the  way  out 
of  the  gallery. 

They  descended  the  steps  together,  and  stood  on  the 
pavement.  Ernst  beckoned  for  a  carriage.  His  com- 
panion uttered  a  faint  exclamation,  too  indistinct  to  be 
understood,  and  said  hurriedly,  "I  will  walk." 

They  proceeded  on  in  silence.  Reaching  the  house, 
the  young  girl  followed  Ernst  up  the  staircase  and  into 
his  apartment. 

"Where,"  said  she,  "shall  I  sit?" 

Ernst  hastened  to  place  his  visitor;  then  he  arranged 
the  canvass,  and  deciding  on  what  he  thought  the  proper 
distance,  he  seized  his  brush. 

For  the  first  time,  he  now  looked  steadily  at  his 
companion. 

She  had  thrown  aside  her  hat  and  shawl.     Her  hair, 


ROMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

escaping  from  its  fastening,  lay  in  disorder  over  her 
shoulders.  The  face — the  eyes — Ernst  dropped  his  brush. 
He  was  terror-stricken. 

"  We  lose  time,"  once  more  she  repeated. 

Ernst  again  took  up  the  brush ;  he  fixed  his  eyes  boldly 
on  the  sitter ;  he  sat  to  work ;  he  grew  more  and  more 
excited ;  touch  after  touch  was  laid  on ;  no  point  was 
omitted.  His  labour  was  so  intense  that  he  felt  his 
breath  shortening  and  his  pulse  throbbing  as  he  pro- 
ceeded. 

"The  hour  has  expired.  I  must  leave  you,"  said  the 
girl,  and  she  rose  to  depart. 

"Stay — stay;  in  Heaven's  name,  stay — one  instant. 
The  eyes — the  eyes — I  must  have  another  glance." 

She  turned  her  head  ;  she  fixed  her  gaze  intently 
on  Ernst  for  at  least  a  minute ;  then  waving  her  hand 
to  prevent  his  following  her,  she  slowly  walked  away. 

Ernst  continued  at  the  picture  the  entire  day,  without 
the  slightest  intermission,  and  when  evening  came  he 
laid  it  aside,  finished.  He  went  to  bed,  but  he  could 
not  sleep.  To  use  his  own  expression,  those  eyes  were 
burnt  into  him.  How  would  this  adventure  end  1  Would 
she  be  at  the  Louvre  the  next  day?  Would  he  ever 
dare  address  her?  Was  his  visiter  really  the  same 
person  he  had  beheld  so  often  there.  She  was  and  she 
was  not.  What  could  it  mean  ? 


THE  TERRIBLE   PICTURE.  133 

Ernst  passed  the  night,  his  brain  teeming  with  tumul- 
tuous thoughts,  and  his  heart  beating  with  violence  all  the 
time.  The  morning  dawned  and  found  him  feverish  and 
excited.  He  rose  and  hastily  dressed  himself.  His  first 
impulse  was  to  inspect  the  portrait.  He  went  to  his 
easel ;  he  looked  on  the  canvass.  His  teeth  chattered ; 
his  knees  knocked  together. 

At  that  instant,  the  woman  who  had  charge  of  the 
room  entered  with  his  breakfast  and  the  morning  journal. 

Ernst  swallowed  a  cup  of  coffee.  Taking  up  the 
journal,  the  first  paragraph  which  met  his  eyes  was  the 
following. 

"MELANCHOLY  OCCURRENCE. — Yesterday,  as  Mademoiselle  de 
Launy,  only  daughter  of  the  Comte  de  Launy,  was  proceeding  in  her 
carriage  to  the  Louvre,  which  she  was  in  the  habit  of  visiting  daily, 
the  horses  took  fright  near  the  corner  of  the  rue  de  Rivoli  and  the 
rue  Castiglione.  As  the  postillion  endeavoured  to  curb  them,  one  of 
the  reins  broke,  and  the  horses  becoming  unmanageable  "ran  furiously 
down  the  street,  upsetting  the  carriage  with  great  violence,  by  which 
Mademoiselle  de  Launy  was  thrown  out  upon  the  pavement  and  her 
skull  fractured.  She  was  taken  up  senseless,  and  immediately  con- 
veyed to  the  residence  of  the  Comte,  where  every  means  that  medical 
skill  could  suggest  were  resorted  to,  but  in  vain.  She  continued 
insensible,  and  after  the  lapse  of  one  hour,  life  was  extinct." 

Ernst  read  no  more,  although  the  paragraph  contained 
particulars  of  the  beauty  of  the  deceased,  her  accom- 
plishments, her  virtues  :  he  threw  down  the  journal.  Did 


134     ROMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

a  shivering  seize  him  ?  Was  he  maddened  with  excite- 
ment, or  struck  with  horror1?  Quite  the  contrary.  He 
was  perfectly  calm  and  tranquil.  His  own  convictions 
were  sustained  and  carried  out :  he  felt  a  serious  pleasure 
that  a  sign  had  been  made  to  him. 

The  following  day  I  returned.  I  found  Ernst,  as  I 
have  said,  more  cheerful  than  usual.  Never  before  had 
I  seen  him  so  free  from  gloomy  thoughts  and  fancies. 
To  be  sure,  he  was  not  gay  or  animated,  but  he  never 
appeared  more  rational.  His  favourite  author  was  Schiller. 
He  felt  a  sympathy  with  any  thing  from  his  pen.  As  we 
sat  together  the  morning  in  which  he  gave  me  the 
account  I  have  now  detailed,  he  repeated  from  Schiller's 
dying  words,  "  '  Now  is  life  so  clear !  So  much  is  made 
clear  and  plain!'  Think  you,"  he  continued,  laying  his 
hand  upon  the  table,  "  that  this  base  matter  is  more 
enduring  than  spirit?  I  can  now  answer  Schiller's 
question : 


-See 


The  marble-tesselated  floor;  and  there 
The  very  walls  are  glittering  livingly 
In  clearest  hue  and  tint.    The  artist  where  ? 
Sure  but  this  instant  he  hath  laid  aside 
Pencil  and  colours !' " 

I  did  not  think  it  judicious   to  raise  any  discussion 
about  a  subject  so   delicate,  although   Ernst  and   I  had 


THE  TERRIBLE   PICTURE.  185 

been  for  years  in  the  habit  of  canvassing  each  other's 
opinions  with  great  freedom.  Besides, — the  painting. 
It  would  have  been  idle,  were  I  disposed,  to  assert,  what 
I  by  no  means  felt  sure  of  myself,  that  it  was  the  work 
of  a  heated  and  overwrought  brain;  that,  distracted  by 
disappointment  in  not  meeting  the  object  of  his  passionate 
adoration,  his  feverish  fancy  had  supplied  the  rest.  I 
neither  affirmed  nor  denied  what  Ernst  would  say,  but 
endeavoured  to  minister  as  much  as  I  could  to  his  pre- 
vailing cheerfulness.  We  continued  to  take  our  walks 
together;  we  discussed  subjects  of  art  as  before;  but 
my  friend  never  took  up  his  unfinished  pictures  ;  he  never 
again  entered  the  Louvre  ! 

"  Franz,  I  shall  never  paint  any  more,"  he  said  to  me 
as  I  was  urging  him  to  resume  his  labours.  "  I  cannot," 
he  continued,  "  explain  to  you  how  I  feel.  My  devotion 
for  Art  is  not  lessened,  nay,  it  is  stronger  in  my  heart 
than  ever.  I  am  neither  moonstruck  nor  melancholy. 
What  has  happened  to  me  is  natural.  But  the  flesh 
is  weak.  I  cannot  sit  again  at  the  easel  after " 

He  did  not  finish  the  sentence :  he  knew  I  understood 
him. 

Ernst  proceeded :  "  I  must  change  my  life.  I  must 
court  an  active  life.  I  will  busy  myself  with  the  prac- 
tical  " 

"  And  thy  artist-life,  O  Ernst !" 


136      ROMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

"  Shall  still  live,  Franz,  in  my  soul :  it  shall  show 
itself  in  my  deeds  :  they  shall  be  humane,  truthful, 
energetic,  and  so  I  will  create  a  new  picture.  Behold 
my  faith 

'  Six  thousand  years  has  death  reigned  tranquilly ! 
Nor  one  corpse  come  to  whisper  those  who  die 
What  after  death  requites  us!' 

No  longer  am  /  without  assurance.  This  is  why  I  am 
cheerful,  hopeful ;  I  believe  in  the  '  requiter?  " 

I  did  not  attempt  to  dissuade  him.  I  could  not;  for 
I  was  myself  convinced  that  Ernst  was  right  in  his 
decision. 

His  plans  were  not  settled,  but  he  determined  first  to 
devote  a  few  months  to  travel  and  recreation. 

The  time  had  come  when  I  was  to  lose  my  early  friend 
and  companion.  We  parted  with  an  understanding  that 
we  should  meet  during  the  season  in  our  native  village. 

Ernst  decided  to  pass  through  Switzerland.  It  was  as 
yet  too  early  to  cross  the  higher  passes  of  the  Alps  with 
safety.  But  Ernst  was  always  enthusiastic  among  such 
scenes,  and  loved  the  excitement  attending  them. 

You  doubtless  remember  a  published  account,  about 
eighteen  months  ago,  of  a  company  of  five  persons  who, 
attempting  to  cross  by  the  pass  of  the  St.  Gothard,  were 
overtaken  by  a  tourmente  near  the  fatal  Buco  del  Calan- 


THE   TERRIBLE    PICTURE.  137 

chetti,  and  buried  under  the  snow.  Ernst  von  Wolzogen 
was  one  of  the  party,  and  perished,  beneath  the  ava- 
lanche.   

•  ••••••••*•• 

There  was  a  long  pause  after  Von  Herberg  had  con- 
cluded. It  was  broken  by  Vincent. 

"Do  you  know,"  he  said,  "that  story  makes  me  feel 
deucedly  unsettled?  You  Germans  are  a  fearful  set  of 
fellows.  What  is  the  use  of  harrowing  up  one's  fancies 
in  this  way  ?  Franz,  my  dear  boy,  I  mean  no  offence ; 
with  you  it's  all  very  natural,  but  it's  too  hard  work  for 
me;  besides,  my  old  aunt  would  say  that  it  isn't  good 
Bible  doctrine.  Gentlemen,  you  must  all  adjourn  to  my 
room.  Franz,  you  shall  lodge  with  me  to-night — I  have 
two  beds,  you  know.  I  am  afraid  to  leave  you  alone 
after  such  a  narration.  Lock  that  closet-door  and  throw 
away  the  key — g-h-r-r-r-r!  It  makes  me  shiver  to  think 
of  it.  Allans,  Messieurs,  I  have  some  champagne  wine 
and  a  box  of  real  Habanas  just  smuggled,  and,  what  is 
more,  I  propose  to  tell  you  a  story  which  I  heard  but 
yesterday,  and  which,  I  hope,  will  help  us  to  forget  this 
one,  so  that  we  may  sleep  in  peace  without  those  eyes — 
g-h-r-r-r-r  !  Allans — aHons." 

Not  one  of  the  party  had  stirred  while  Vincent  was 
making  his  speech.  But  the  spell  was  now  broken,  and, 
accompanied  by  Franz,  they  all  descended  to  Vincent's 


138      ROMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

room,  making  numerous  lively  demonstrations  on  the 
way.  The  corks  flew  from  the  champagne;  pipes,  meer- 
schaums and  segars  were  lighted,  and  after  a  reasonable 
period  spent  in  discussing  their  merits,  Vincent  was  called 
on  for  the  story. 


VINCENT  TELLS  HIS  STORY.  139 


CHAPTEE   VII. 

VINCENT   TELLS   HIS  STORY. 

"  You  all  know  Paul  Ferval,  the  water-carrier  ?" 

"  Oh,  certainly,  we  all  know  Paul — if  that's  any  assist- 
ance to  you." 

"  Messieurs,  I  beg  you  not  to  be  impertinent ;  au  con- 
traire,  pray  be  docile,  and  tell  me  when  any  of  you  saw 
Paul  last." 

After  considerable  serious  reflection,  none  of  the  com- 
pany remembered  to  have  seen  him  for  several  weeks. 
It  was  strange ;  they  had  not  thought  of  it  before.  What 
had  become  of  him? 

"  That  is  what  I  am  about  to  tell  you.  The  old  woman 
who  rents  the  atelier  where  Paul  lodged,  just  around  the 
corner,  in  the  rue  Neuve  St.  Medard,  has  given  me  the 
whole  story.  It  is  a  capital  one.  -Our  worthy  Doctor 
Lanote  is  mixed  up  with  it,  and  you  will  say  the  affair  is 
very  characteristic  of  him.  But,  artist-like,"  (bowing  to 
Franz,)  "  I  will  begin  at  the  beginning.  Messieurs,  please 
to  observe  silence  while  I  give  you  the  story  of 


140  ROMANCE   OF  STUDENT   LIFE. 

•d&ijj  Mn-tmut. 

IN  a  small  village,  a  few  miles  from  Macon,  on  the 
road  to  Lyons,  lived — and,  I  trust,  still  lives — the  widow 
Ferval.  She  had  been  the  wife  of  a  weaver,  who,  several 
years  before  the  commencement  of  my  history,  selected 
the  little  village  for  his  home,  hired  a  small  tenement, 
and  set  up  his  loom.  It  was  whispered  about  that  Ferval 
had,  as  the  phrase  is,  seen  better  days.  Nothing  positive 
ever  transpired,  however,  to  confirm  this  notion.  The 
weaver  and  his  wife  were  both  industrious — went  very 
little  among  their  neighbours;  but,  at  the  same  time, 
were  held  hi  good  esteem  as  peaceable  and  quiet  people. 
They  had  but  one  child — a  mere  lad — when  Ferval  first 
came  to  the  village,  and  who  was  greatly  indulged  both 
by  father  and  mother.  Young  Paul  Ferval  grew  up  to 
be  one  of  the  finest  fellows  in  the  whole  county.  His 
voice  was  clear  and  ringing,  his  eye  bright,  his  form 
manly,  and  his  step  full  of  activity.  He  sang  a  good 
song,  he  could  play  on  half-a-dozen  instruments,  he  knew 
how  to  cast  an  account  and  to  write,  and  even  had  some 
taste  for  reading !  But  the  worst  of  it  was,  he  was  taught 
nothing  by  which  he  might,  in  due  time,  earn  an  honest 
livelihood.  He  had  not  been  put  to  any  trade.  He  could 
not  even  weave ;  which  was  strange  enough,  as  he  came 
up  under  the  very  sound  of  the  shuttles.  In  short,  he  never 


THE   WATER-CARRIER.  141 

had  done  what  one  should  call  a  day's  work  in  his  life.  A 
very  bad  example  did  Paul  Ferval  unconsciously  set  to 
the  youths  of  the  village — an  example  which  would  doubt- 
less have  been  gladly  followed,  had  their  fathers  been  like 
the  father  of  Paul. 

On  several  occasions,  certain  of  the  more  substantial 
villagers  ventured  to  remonstrate  with  the  elder  Ferval 
on  the  course  he  was  pursuing  with  his  son,  and  hinted 
that  it  would  be  much  better  for  him  to  bring  up  the  boy 
to  some  honest  calling,  than  to  permit  him  to  be  roving 
about  the  country,  singing  songs  and  playing  the  flute  or 
violin.  These  suggestions  were  to  little  purpose.  Ferval 
would  say  to  his  advisers  :  "  Has  my  boy  been  guilty 
of  any  thing  culpable,  or  any  thing  dishonourable  ?  Does 
he  frequent  the  wine-house  ?  Does  he  keep  bad  com- 
pany? Is  he  from  home  at  unseasonable  hours?"  No 
one  could  assort  this ;  and  the  conference  would  be  closed 
by  a  shrug  of  the  shoulder  and  a  shake  of  the  head,  and 
a  hint  that  the  example  Paul  set  to  his  companions,  who 
were  taught  to  labour  for  their  living,  was  a  very  bad 
one,  nevertheless.  Ferval's  father  would  make  no  reply, 
and  so  it  would  end.  The  fact  is,  Ferval's  neighbours 
were  right,  and  he  was  wrong.  But  Paul  was  an  only 
child,  a  darling  child, — and  a  right  good  child  he  was. 
dutiful  and  affectionate,  and  withal  a  manly  fellow, 
— so  that  the  father,  who  detested  his  own  trade,  in 


142     ROMANCE  OP  STUDENT  LIFE. 

which,  however,  he  was  very  skilful,  and,  being  able 
to  support  his  small  family  without  difficulty,  could  not 
bear  to  set  his  bright,  ardent,  vivacious  boy  down  to  the 
back-breaking  machine  at  which  he  himself  toiled  so 
faithfully. 

But  the  evil  day  came  at  last.  Ferval  was  taken 
mortally  ill,  and  died.  He  left  scarcely  more  than  enough 
to  provide  for  a  decent  burial,  and  his  widow  had  to 
depend  entirely  on  her  daily  labour  for  support.  It  was 
now  that  Paul  lamented  bitterly  that  a  different  course 
had  not  been  pursued  with  him.  He  looked  with  feelings 
of  envy  on  the  young  fellows  of  his  own  age  who  were 
already  able  to  earn  a  decent  support.  He  blamed  him- 
self for  his  improvidence.  He  knew  not  what  to  do, 
unless  to  become  a  labourer  in  the  fields.  Paul  had 
another  trouble,  and  it  was  a  serious  one. — He  was  hi 
love !  Fanchette  Crosier  was  the  prettiest  maiden  in 
the  whole  department.  I  won't  attempt  to  describe  her 
to  you,  gentlemen,  because  description  is  not  my  forte ; 
besides,  she  has  not  been  particularly  described  to  me, 
and  I  forbear  to  draw  on  my  imagination,  but  leave  you 
to  draw  on  yours.  All  I  know  is,  she  was  confessedly 
without  a  rival  the  country  round.  Her  father,  Nicolas 
Crosier,  was  a  stout-built,  sturdy-looking  old  fellow,  with 
a  visage  sour  enough  to  frighten  any  youth  who  should 
have  the  audacity  to  offer  himself  as  suitor  for  his  daughter. 


THE   WATER-CARRIER.  143 

He  had  from  a  very  small  beginning  got  to  be  the  pro- 
prietaire  of  a  large  farm,  and  now  enjoyed  himself  in 
cultivating  his  own  land.  The  girl  was  his  only  child, 
and,  although  Nicolas  was  at  times  rather  severe  with 
his  daughter,  his  heart  was  really  bound  up  in  his  little 
Fanchette,  as  he  called  her. 

Nicolas  Crosier  was  one  of  the  persons  who  used  to 
take  the  liberty  of  remonstrating  with  the  weaver  Ferval 
about  the  young  Paul.  After  all,  there  was  something 
beyond  the  mere  desire  of  rendering  Paul  a  service,  and 
preserving  the  place  from  the  evils  of  his  example,  that 
influenced  many  of  those  who  were  so  ready  with  their 
advice  for  Paul's  benefit.  If  the  truth  must  be  told,  all 
the  girls  of  the  village  were  in  love  with  him,  and  I  dare 
not  assert  the  pretty  Fanchette  was  an  exception — I  will 
be  frank  for  once,  and  say  she  was  not  an  exception. 
No  wonder,  then,  that  the  worthy  fathers  trembled  at 
the  thought  of  having  such  an  idle  fellow  stealing  in  on 
them,  and  running  off  with  the  flower  of  their  flock. 

As  for  Paul,  as  I  have  said,  he  had  his  own  troubles 
in  this  respect.  He  was  in  love — in  love  with  Fanchette 
Crosier,  and  of  course  was  in  despair.  In  the  first 
place,  it  was  not  possible  Fanchette  could  ever  fancy 
him — no,  not  possible.  Then  old  Nicolas  Crosier !  To 
be  sure,  Paul  was  always  so  civil,  so  respectful,  so 
courteous,  that  the  old  fellow  could  not  quarrel  with 


144      ROMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

him.  Paul  had  done  nothing,  had  said  nothing,  had  made 
no  demonstration  which  approximated  toward  making  love 
to  Fanchette.  But  Nicolas  Crosier  was  too  knowing  to 
be  deceived.  He  kept  a  strict  watch  both  on  Fanchette 
and  Paul,  resolving  at  the  proper  time  to  give  a  death- 
blow to  any  hopes  the  latter  might  entertain  in  that 
quarter.  I  don't  mean  to  say  that  the  old  fellow  had 
any  special  objection  to  the  youth  beyond  what  he 
urged  to  his  father — and  which  certainly  was  very 
proper — but  he  had  made  up  his  mind,  after  the  death 
of  the  elder  Ferval,  to  put  a  stop  to  Paul's  coming  to  the 
house  as  soon  as  he  decently  could  do  so.  It  will  be 
seen  that  Paul  himself  brought  on  the  crisis.  He  could 
endure  the  suspense  no  longer.  So  one  morning  he  goes 
to  the  house  of  Nicolas  Crosier,  which  was  situated  a 
little  out  of  the  village,  determined  to  seek  an  interview 
with  the  old  man,  and  have  his  destiny  settled. 

Nicolas  was  seated  on  the  little  portico  which  skirted 
the  front  of  his  house,  and  which  overlooked  his  garden  and 
his  meadow.  He  read  Paul's  errand  in  his  face,  and  was 
glad  enough  that  the  wished-for  opportunity  had  come. 
He  saluted  the  young  man  civilly,  and  bade  him  take  a 
seat.  The  latter  was  too  much  agitated  to  sit  down,  but 
told  his  errand  at  once. 

"You  want  to  marry  Fanchette?" 

"  With  your  permission,"  said  Paul,  modestly. 


THE   WATER-CARRIER.  145 

"  What  would  you  do  with  her  f  asked  Nicolas,  gruffly. 

Paul  hesitated :  he  was  not  taken  by  surprise,  for  he 
knew  the  question  would  be  put  to  him ;  but  now  that  it 
was  put,  he  felt  the  force  of  it  more  than  when  he  was 
considering  it  by  himself. 

"  What  would  you  do  with  her,  eh  ?" 

"  I  would  work  from  morning  to  night,  and  she  should 
want  for  nothing,"  said  Paul,  resolutely. 

"These  are  fine  words,  and  you  are  doubtless  a  very 
fine  fellow,"  said  Nicolas,  ironically;  "but  tell  me,  Paul 
Ferval,  are  you  really  such  an  imbecile  as  to  suppose  me 
willing  to  throw  away  Fanchette  on  a  lazy,  idle  vagabond 
— one  who  never  earned  the  salt  in  his  soup,  and  now 
that  his  father  is  dead,  is  seeking  to  be  supported  by  a 
father-in-law." 

Paul  swallowed  the  hard  words  with  difficulty;  the 
insinuation  of  seeking  a  support  cut  him  to  the  quick ;  at 
the  same  time  he  could  not  deny  but  that  it  would  be  very 
natural  for  any  one  to  view  his  conduct  in  just  that  light. 

After  a  moment's  hesitation,  he  replied,  "  I  do  not 
wonder  you  have  these  suspicions,  but  you  wrong  me. 
I  do  not  want  Fanchette  until  I  prove  to  you  I  am  able 
to  support  her." 

"  Cela  est  fort  beau  ;  mais  a  quoi  diable  cela  revient-il  ?" 
asked  old  Nicolas,  sneeringly.  "  What's  that  to  the  pur- 
pose  ] — why  do  you  come  to  me  now  ?" 


146      ROMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

"  Because,"  said  Paul,  with  a  despairing  energy,  "  if  I 
had  from  you  the  slightest  assurance  that  Fanchette  might 
one  day  be  mine,  it  would  give  me  courage  to  accomplish 
every  thing,  and  this,  Monsieur  Crosier,  is  why  I  come  now." 

There  was  something  in  Paul's  resolute  tone  which 
touched  a  similar  chord  in  the  old  man.  Besides,  Paul 
sought  no  present  advantage :  he  was  content  to  put  off 
the  day :  there  was  one  point  gained.  Nicolas  Crosier 
considered  a  while,  and  then  he  said — "  Paul,  your  father 
was  a  worthy,  industrious  man ;  your  mother  is  a  most 
excellent  woman ;  you,  at  present,  are  a  miserable,  worth- 
less do-nothing.  You  say  you  are  resolved  to  turn  about, 
go  to  work,  and  make  something  of  yourself:  I  don't 
believe  you  ever  will ;  but  I  am  not  the  one  to  discourage 
a  man  who  wants  to  do  better.  Fanchette  is  but  six- 
teen. She  sha'n't  marry  any  body  with  my  consent  these 
three  years.  Now,  look  you,  if  you  can  come  to  me  in 
three  years,  and  say — '  Nicolas  Crosier,  I  have  earned 
money  to  buy  some  land'  (I  don't  care  how  little)  'and 
I  have  saved  money  to  build  a  cottage,'  (let  it  be  ever  so 
small,)  '  and  I  want  Fanchette,' — sacre  bleu  !  you  shall  have 
Fanchette — that  is,  if  the  girl  is  fool  enough  to  say  she 
likes  you,  which  I  very  much  doubt;  and  here  is  my 
hand  on  it." 

Paul  seized  the  offered  hand,  and  gave  it  such  a  grasp 
that  it  brought  the  tears  into  old  Crosier's  eyes. 


THE   WATER-CARRIER.  147 

"  I  don't  ask  for  better  terms — I  have  no  right  to  ask 
for  better.  Ten  thousand  thousand  thanks." 

" Brisons  la-dessus"  said  the  old  man,  hastily ;  " go  in 
if  you  like  and  see  my  wife,  perhaps  Fanchette  is  with 
her ;  then  be  off  with  yourself.  No  more  love-making — 
do  you  understand  ? — for  three  years." 

It  is  very  doubtful  if  Paul  heard  the  last  part  of  the 
sentence,  as  he  was  already  in  the  house,  seated  between 
Fanchette  and  her  mother.  He  told  the  latter  (with 
whom,  by  the  way,  his  handsome  address  and  pleasing 
manners  had  made  him  a  favourite)  the  result  of  the  late 
interview,  and  improved  the  short  time  that  was  allowed 
him,  I  have  no  doubt,  to  the  best  advantage.  A  three 
years'  banishment  is  certainly  a  formidable  obstacle  even 
for  "  true  love :"  but  Fanchette  had  no  fears ;  her  mother 
had  no  fears ;  so,  with  many  words  of  encouragement, 
Paul  took  his  leave.  Old  Nicolas  Crosier  nodded  care- 
lessly to  him  as  he  passed  out ;  and  it  was  not  till  Paul 
had  entered  his  mother's  cottage  that  his  heart  sank  within 
him  at  what  he  was  to  undertake.  But  his  resolution 
was  fixed.  He  briefly  informed  his  mother  what  had 
occurred,  and  begged  her  to  grant  him-her  blessing,  and 
let  him  set  out  the  next  morning  to  seek  his  fortunes.  It 
was  a  grievous  struggle  for  the  poor  woman,  but  her  son's 
reasoning  finally  prevailed,  and  the  next  day  Paul  departed 
on  foot  from  his  native  village.  A  knapsack  swung  over 


148      ROMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

his  shoulders  contained  his  clothing,  and  the  sum  of  twenty- 
six  francs,  which  the  widow  had  carefully  saved  for  some 
unforeseen  emergency,  was  safely  deposited  in  his  pocket. 
It  was  a  long  time  before  Paul  consented  to  take  the 
money,  for  the  sneers  of  old  Nicolas  Crosier  were  still 
tingling  in  his  ears ;  his  mother,  however,  who  knew  how 
much  he  might  stand  in  need  of  it,  forced  the  silver  into 
his  hand,  and,  throwing  her  arms  around  his  neck,  she 
embraced  him  tenderly  and  commended  him  to  the  keep- 
ing of  the  Holy  Virgin  and  all  the  Saints.  Paul  sobbed 
with  grief,  in  spite  of  himself,  as  he  trudged  slowly  away. 
But,  as  he  got  out  into  the  open  country,  the  fresh  fields 
and  the  pleasant  prospect  inspired  him,  while  the  thought 
of  the  stake  for  which  he  was  venturing  soon  restored  all 
his  natural  courage  and  determination. 

His  journey  contained  no  adventures.  He  was  kindly 
entertained  by  the  inhabitants  as  he  passed  along,  all  of 
whom  were  delighted  with  Paul's  open,  easy  manner, 
and  pleasant,  cheerful  countenance. 

It  was  about  noon  that  our  adventurer  found  himself, 
after  some  days'  travel,  within  sight  of  Paris.  His  purse 
still  bore  the  weight  of  his  twenty-six  francs,  for  so  hos- 
pitably had  Paul  been  treated  upon  the  road  that  he 
found  no  occasion  to  lighten  it. 

His  heart  beat  with  excitement  as  he  beheld  the  gay 
city  where  all  his  hopes  were  centred.  He  was  very 


THE   WATER-CAKRIER.  149 

sanguine.  If  he  had  been  received  as  a  brother  by  the 
peasants  by  the  wayside — some  of  whom  were  nearly 
as  poor  as  himself — what  good  fortune  must  now  attend 
him1?  what  might  he  not  expect  from  the  rich  and  the 
powerful?  Poor  Paul  had  yet  to  learn  the  lesson  that 
kindnesses  and  charities  spring  from  the  humble  and  the 
lowly,  not  from  the  opulent  and  the  great. 

As  he  advanced  into  the  city,  he  reached  the  Italian 
Boulevards.  They  were  thronged,  as  usual,  with  a  glitter- 
ing crowd,  intent  on  pleasure  and  pastime.  Paul  gazed 
wildly  around :  the  stream  swept  by  him  in  a  never-end- 
ing current.  He  put  a  civil  question  to  one  of  the  passers- 
by  ;  it  was  answered  by  a  shrug  and  a  stare.  Gay  sights 
filled  his  eyes,  lively  voices  were  sounding  in  his  ears, 
brilliant  equipages  swept  rapidly  along,  and  the  shops  and 
cafes  and  saloons  bewildered  him  with  their  dazzling  glare. 

Paul's  heart  sank  within  him.  He  thought  of  his 
native  village,  of  his  mother's  cottage,  and  his  courage 
failed  him.  The  real  state  of  things  flashed,  by  a  kind 
of  prescience,  on  his  mind.  Where  was  he  to  go1? 
what  was  he  to  do?  He  felt  that  he  had  no  power 
to  interrupt  the  passing  pageant  with  the  story  of  his 
wants  or  of  his  aspirations,  so  he  stood  oppressed  and 
dejected,  till,  finding  himself  continually  jostled  by  the 
crowd,  he  proceeded  down  the  Boulevards  in  the  direction 
of  the  river. 


150  EOMANCE   OF  STUDENT   LIFE. 

It  was  doubtless  by  that  same  Instinct  which  leads 
the  miserable  to  seek  the  companionship  of  the  distressed, 
that  Paul  found  himself,  as  the  day  began  to  wane,  on 
this  side  of  the  Seine,  and  in  the  dirty  quarter  of  the 
rue  Neuve  St.  Medard.  He  was  weary,  hungry,  and  dis- 
pirited. The  purse  containing  his  twenty-six  francs  was 
still  safe  in  his  pocket;  but  he  dreaded  to  make  the 
first  inroad  upon  it. 

As  he  stood  leaning  against  the  doorway  of  one  of  the 
ponderous  buildings,  irresolute  what  course  to  take,  a  little, 
fat  old  woman,  fifty  or  sixty  years  old,  with  a  large  wool 
mattrass  on  her  head,  turned  into  the  court-yard.  She 
did  not  see  Paul,  who  at  that  moment  had  advanced  a 
step  directly  in  her  path.  He,  poor  fellow,  was  too  much 
taken  up  with  his  own  situation  to  notice  her.  At  the 
moment  of  contact  Paul  made  an  awkward  endeavour  to 
avoid  the  collision.  It  resulted  in  making  matters  worse. 
The  mattrass  was  not  only  thrown  down,  but  the  little, 
fat  old  woman  unfortunately  lost  her  balance,  and  rolled 
into  the  mud. 

Paul  hastened  to  her  assistance,  but  was  greeted  by 
a  storm  of  abuse  for  his  carelessness  in  intercepting 
the  passage-way.  They  were  the  first  words  which  had 
been  addressed  to  him  since  he  placed  his  foot  within 
the  city,  and  it  was  music  to  his  ear  to  hear  them. 
He  raised  the  old  woman  in  spite  of  her  clamour,  took 


THE   WATER-CARRIER.  151 

up  the  mattrass  with  alacrity,  and  insisted  on  carrying 
it  to  the  top  of  the  house,  where  was  situated  the  small 
atelier  in  which  she  performed  her  labours  of  cardeuse. 

By  the  time  Paul  had  mounted  au  sixieme,  the  wrath 
of  "Old  Mannette,"  the  little  fat  woman, — we  may  as 
well  call  her  by  name,  at  least,  the  only  one  by  which 
she  is  known, — was  very  considerably  abated ;  and  when, 
having  been  directed  into  what  room  to  go,  Paul  put 
down  the  mattrass  and  again  asked  pardon  for  his  awk- 
wardness, Old  Mannette's  feelings  took  quite  the  con- 
trary turn,  and  she  apologized  with  much  volubility  for 
her  own  rudeness.  The  old  and  ill-formed  are  especially 
gratified  by  the  attentions  of  the  young  and  handsome. 
It  certainly  did  not  diminish  the  force  of  her  protesta- 
tions when  she  saw  that  it  was  a  fine,  manly-looking 
fellow  who  was  showing  her  so  much  civility. 

The  result  of  this  adventure  was  very  satisfactory,  all 
things  considered.  The  sight  of  Paul's  knapsack  naturally 
called  forth  an  inquiry  from  the  old  woman,  and  it  ended 
in  Paul's  telling  her  his  whole  story.  Just  think  of  it ! 
Paul  Ferval  making  a  confidante  of  Mannette,  the  old 
cardeuse!  A  heavy  falling  off  from  the  bright  anticipa- 
tions of  the  morning.  For  all  that,  Paul  was  happy 
enough  to  find  any  body  to  whom  he  could  talk,  and 
of  whom  he  might  ask  questions. 

Old  Mannette,  after  all,   was  not  the  worst  adviser 


152      ROMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

Paul  could  have  had.  She  was  really  a  kind-hearted, 
sensible  creature,  who  understood  the  ways  of  the  town, 
having  been  left  at  an  early  age  to  take  care  of  herself. 
Of  course,  she  had  never  married ;  for  nobody  would 
think  of  such  a  dwarfish,  ill-formed  thing  for  a  wife.  She 
had  now  lived  many  years  in  that  house,  and  pursued 
her  vocation  unremittingly  from  day  to  day.  Such  was 
the  person  who,  before  she  was  aware  of  it,  had  taken  a 
strong  interest  in  Paul's  fortunes.  And  Paul — he  was 
no  longer  the  lonely,  miserable,  isolated  wretch,  sur- 
rounded by  the  gay  throng  of  the  Boulevard.  Seated  on 
a  pile  of  mattrasses  in  the  little  dark  atelier  of  Old 
Mannette,  he  was  as  light-hearted  and  happy  as  was 
possible. 

"  I  tell  you  what  you  shall  do,  Master  Paul :  I  have 
a  little  room  which  joins  this,  not  much  larger  than  a 
closet,  I  admit,  but  it  will  answer  until  you  can  afford  some- 
thing better.  You  shall  have  as  many  mattrasses  as  you 
like,  and  I  can  manage  to  make  up  the  bed  for  you 
from  my  own  store.  Au  reste,  you  shall  breakfast  with 
me,  paying  only  your  share,  and  for  dinner  I  have  al- 
ways an  abundance  of  soup  and  excellent  bouilli.  But 
that,  after  all,  is  nothing,"  continued  the  now  enthusiastic 
old  woman.  "  What  can  be  thought  of  for  you  ?"  And 
she  put  a  multitude  of  questions  to  Paul  as  to  the 
extent  of  his  capacities. 


THE   WATEK-CAREIER.  153 

The  poor  fellow  made  but  a  sorry  figure  while  going 
through  this  catechism. 

"I  have  it  at  last,"  cried  Old  Mannette  with  delight; 
"  you  shall  become  a  water-carrier.  The  old  carrier  left 
the  'route'  only  yesterday;  to  be  sure,  he  could  not 
make  a  living  out  of  it,  but  then  he  has  not  half  your 
activity,  I  am  sure  he  has  not.  To-morrow  you  shall 
begin:  you  must  purchase  your  cans  early  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  I  will  go  with  you  and  show  you  the  way." 

Old  Mannette  now  went  into  a  full  explanation  of  the 
labours  and  duties  of  a  water-carrier;  and,  although  she 
admitted  he  would  have  a  very  unpromising  route,  still 
she  was  persuaded  Paul  could  make  something  out  of  it. 

Our  hero  went  to  bed  with  a  light  heart.  Doubtless, 
the  thought  which  is  so  well  expressed  in  our  English 
lines  came  into  his  head: 

"  "Tis  the  poor  man  alone, 
"When  he  hears  the  poor  moan, 
A  mite  of  his  morsel  will  give. 

"Well-a-day." 

The  next  morning  Paul  rose  bright  and  early.  Not 
now  with  reluctance  was  his  purse  drawn  forth.  He 
was  paying  money  for  the  implements  of  his  trade, 
and  he  counted  it.  out  cheerfully.  Soon  he  became 
familiar  with  the  mysteries  of  his  profession,  and  settled 

into  its  routine.     It  was  hard,  even   for  Paul,  to  make 

7* 


154      ROMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

a  sous  over  and  above  his  daily  expenses.  Old  Man- 
nette  had  not  done  justice  to  the  former  water-carrier. 
He  had  abandoned  the  route  after  a  very  faithful  trial. 
But  Paul  was  not  to  be  discouraged.  He  did  gain  a 
little.  By  degrees  he  extended  his  trips  as  he  gained 
greater  facility  in  serving ;  he  also  made  inquiries  about 
the  business  in  the  other  parts  of  the  town,  and  dis- 
covered that  to  be  in  a  position  to  lay  by  any  money, 
he  should  be  possessed  of  a  horse  and  cart. 

"  What  shall  I  do,"  he  said  to  Old  Mannette,  "  for  a 
horse  and  cart1?  I  must  have  a  horse  and  cart.  I  am 
so  familiar  with  the  work  now,  that  I  could  soon  change 
my  situation  with  a  horse  and  cart." 

"  Take  time,  Paul,  take  time,"  Old  Mannette  replied  ; 
"  do  not  fret  too  much  about  it.  I  know  a  wheelwright 
near  by,  who  will,  I  am  sure,  let  you  have  a  second-hand 
cart  on  credit,  if  you  can  only  buy  the  horse." 

Paul  set  to  with  more  zeal  than  ever,  and  by  degrees 
his  purse  grew  a  little  heavier,  and  his  heart  proportion- 
ably  light. 

The  weather  at  length  began  to  be  cheerless  and 
forbidding.  The  winter,  which  is  always  disagreeable 
in  Paris,  was  unusually  severe,  and  Paul  overtasked  him- 
self in  performing  what  were  his  accustomed  summer 
duties.  In  one  very  severe  storm  Paul  was  more  than 
usually  exposed,  and  he  continued  to  labour  till  a  late 


THE   WATER-CARRIER.  155 

hour.  He  came  home  shivering,  and,  without  taking 
proper  pains  to  dry  himself,  he  went  to  bed.  He  awoke 
in  the  middle  of  the  night  with  a  burning  fever.  He 
tossed  and  tumbled  about  till  morning,  and  then  endeav- 
oured to  rise.  His  limbs  refused  to  sustain  him,  and 
he  sank  almost  fainting  on  his  bed.  After  a  few  mo- 
ments he  again  attempted  to  raise  himself,  but  the  room 
seemed  to  whirl  round,  and  he  grew  so  giddy  that  he 
was  forced  once  more  to  throw  himself  down.  Shortly 
after,  Old  Mannette,  having  prepared  breakfast,  knocked 
at  his  room,  surprised  that  Paul  was  not  already  stir- 
ring. She  was  answered  by  a  voice  so  uncertain  in  its 
character  that  she  pushed  open  the  door.  She  hastened 
to  his  bedside,  and,  seeing  the  poor  fellow  so  ill,  could 
not  help  expressing  her  lamentations.  Paul  had  never 
been  indisposed  a  day  in  his  life  before,  and  had  not  the 
slightest  idea  of  a  prolonged  sickness.  Much,  therefore^ 
as  he  was  suffering,  he  assured  the  kind-hearted  old  woman 
that  he  should  be  quite  well  in  a  few  hours,  and  asked 
her  to  see  one  of  the  ouvriers  below,  and  arrange  for 
the  performance  of  that  day's  labour.  Old  Mannette  was 
familiar  with  disease;  for  at  one  time  she  had  been  a 
nurse :  her  experienced  eye  detected  the  presence  of  a 
violent  fever,  and  she  was  satisfied  that  it  would  confine 
Paul  many  days  to  his  bed.  She  did  not  discourage  him, 
however,  but  endeavoured  to  persuade  him  to  remove  to 


156     ROMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

her  own  room,  which  could  boast  of  the  luxury  of  a  fire- 
place, although  it  is  more  than  probable  it  had  never 
been  used.  Paul  would  not  consent  to  change,  and  Old 
Mannette,  after  preparing  a  ptisan  and  placing  it  near 
him,  and  recommending  him  to  keep  very  quiet,  went 
out  to  attend  to  her  occupations.  When  she  returned, 
she  found  Paul  much  worse.  Indeed,  Paul  himself 
began  to  think  something  serious  was  fastened  on  him. 
The  very  loss  of  time  was  to  him  a  mortal  blow.  Six 
months  had  elapsed,  and  he  had  certainly  gained  very 
little  toward  the  consummation  of  his  plans.  Here  was 
a  "stay"  which  Paul  had  never  calculated  on — had 
never  dreamed  of.  Old  Mannette  read  his  thoughts,  and 
hastened  to  comfort  him.  First,  she  insisted  on  his 
removing  into  the  next  room ;  then  she  purchased 
fagots  and  made  a  fire,  without  letting  Paul  know  it 
was  not  her  daily  custom  to  do  so.  What  with  the 
excitement  of  the  change,  and  of  the  pleasant  blaze 
upon  the  hearth,  her  patient  fancied  himself  much 
better,  while  Old  Mannette  had  not  the  heart  to  tell 
him  she  knew  he  was  hourly  growing  worse. 

He  passed  a  miserable  night,  so  that  Old  Mannette 
was  much  alarmed  at  his  appearance  the  following  morn- 
ing. However,  she  said  but  little  to  Paul,  who,  now 
almost  despairing,  lay,  with  throbbing  pulse  and  suffused 
eyes,  in  a  state  bordering  on  entire  apathy.  Immediately 


THE   WATER-CARRIEK.  157 

after  her  breakfast  she  hurried  away  to  "dear  Dr.  La- 
note,"  Old  Mannette's  favourite  among  the  medical  faculty. 
You  all  know  the  Doctor,  his  oddities,  his  eccentricities, 
his  abrupt  manner,  and  his  kind  heart.  If  the  worthy 
man  stood  so  high  in  Mannette's  critical  estimation,  the 
latter  was  no  less  esteemed  with  him.  She  had  nursed 
under  the  Doctor,  first  and  last,  at  least  twenty  years, 
and,  as  he  always  bore  witness,  she  had  never  swerved 
from  his  orders  or  volunteered  any  thing  out  of  place. 
A  reliable  nurse  is  a  valuable  assistant  to  the  physician, 
and  whenever  Dr.  Lanote  was  called  to  a  patient  and 
found  Mannette  in  charge,  he  did  not  hesitate  to  express 
a  peculiar  satisfaction. 

To  Dr.  Lanote  Old  Mannette  hurried.  She  had  to 
cross  the  river,  and  take  a  long  walk  on  the  other  side 
of  the  Seine,  but  she  got  to  his  house  before  he  had 
left,  and  waited  for  her  turn  to  see  him. 

"  Ah,  Mannette,  is  it  you  ?  Sit  down.  You  have  had 
a  long  walk  this  morning.  I  hope  you  have  come  to 
say  you  are  going  to  try  your  hand  as  nurse  again  1 
Nowadays  it's  a  novelty  to  find  a  nurse  that  keeps  to 
her  duty.  Do  you  remember  how  we  carried  through 
Monsieur  Gaudelef?" 

"  Can  I  ever  forget  it  ?"  said  the  old  woman  with 
vivacity ;  "  and  how  the  rich  merchant  offered  you  his 
purse,  and  you  bade  him  hand  it  to  Mannette,  saying  that 


158      ROMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

the  nurse  had  done  more  than  yourself  towards  his  re- 
covery. It  was  a  proud  day  for  me ;  and  that  was  the 
reason  I  could  not  receive  the  money.  I  felt  more  than 
paid  by  what  you  said  of  me,  and  it  seemed  as  if  I 
should  be  robbed  of  that  reward  had  I  taken  it." 

"  Ah,  Mannette,  you  are  an  old  fool  like  myself.  But 
I  must  despatch  these  patients.  What  is  to  be  done  for 
you?" 

Although  Dr.  Lanote  was  really  in  a  hurry  that  morn- 
ing,  he  sat  patiently  and  heard  Mannette  tell  the  whole 
story  of  Paul  Ferval  from  beginning  to  end.  He  be- 
trayed no  particular  interest  in  the  narration,  and  when 
it  was  concluded  he  said,  "  Very  well,  Mannette.  Now 
go  and  attend  to  your  mattrasses,  I  will  give  the 
youngster  a  call ;"  and  the  old  woman  went  off  as  well 
contented  as  if  she  had  received  every  assurance  in  the 
world  in  relation  to  her  protege. 

It  was  about  one  o'clock  in  the  afternoon.  With 
Paul  the  hours  had  passed  heavily.  From  a  continual 
restlessness  he  gradually  sunk  into  a  stupor,  against  which 
he  vainly  endeavoured  to  struggle.  He  was  partially 
roused  from  it  by  a  friendly  shake  of  the  shoulder,  while 
an  abrupt  but  not  harsh  voice  exclaimed,  "Well,  what 
are  you  doing  here  T' 

Paul  opened  his  eyes  and  saw  standing  over  him  a 
little,  inquisitive-looking,  brighkeyed  old  fellow,  who 


THE   WATER-CAKBIER.  159 

was  regarding  him  with  an  expression  of  curiosity  and 
interest. 

"  Well,  mon  enfant,  what  do  you  think  of  me  ?" 

As  Paul  krtew  nothing  of  Old  Mannette's  expedition, 
he  had  not  the  slightest  idea  that  the  visit  was  from  a 
physician.  He  said  nothing,  but  stared  wildly  at  the 
intruder. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  you  ?"  said  Dr.  Lanote. 

"I  don't  know,"  replied  Paul. 

Dr.  Lanote  proceeded  to  examine  his  symptoms  very 
carefully. 

"  Are  you  a  medical  man  ?"  inquired  Paul. 

«  Yes." 

"  I  don't  want  one." 

"Why  not1?" 

"I  am  better  without." 

"  You  speak  more  truth  than  you  imagine,  my  poor 
fellow,"  muttered  Dr.  Lanote  to  himself. 

"Besides,"  continued  Paul,  "I  have  no  means 'of  pay- 
ing for  visits." 

"That  is  not  true,"  said  the  doctor,  bluntly.  "You 
have  a  bag  containing  five-franc  pieces  some  where  about 
the  room." 

"Wretch!"  cried  Paul,  in  an  excited  tone,  "would 
you  rob  me?" 

"No,"  said  the  doctor,  dryly,  evidently  not  relishing 


160      ROMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

being  mistaken  for  a  voleur.  "  I  would  cure  you,  that's 
all — and  to  do  that,  I  must  rouse  you;  and  I  think 
I  have  partially  succeeded.  Where's  Mannette?" 

"I  cannot  tell,"  said  Paul,  who  began  to  think  he 
was  in  a  dream. 

At  that  moment  the  old  woman's  step  was  heard  on 
the  staircase,  and  the  next,  she  made  her  appearance  in 
the  room.  Dr.  Lanote  took  her  aside. 

"  Over-exertion  of  body  and  mind," — he  whispered, — 
"  grief — care  —  disappointment  —  cerebral — typhus.  He 
must  be  nursed — you  understand." 

He  continued  his  suggestions  much  in  the  same 
manner,  dropping  a  word  here  and  there,  to  represent 
a  whole  sentence,  which  was  doubtless  coherent  enough 
in  his  mind,  and  which  Old  Mannette  seemed  to  under- 
stand perfectly. 

"  I  will  be  here  in  the  morning,"  said  Dr.  Lanote ; 
then  turning  to  Paul,  he  bade  him  take  courage,  and 
took  his  leave. 

"  Is  it  possible  that  there  are  no  remedies  for  such 
a  disease1?"  said  Dr.  Lanote  to  himself  as  he  stepped 
slowly  down  the  staircase.  "  I  am  convinced  that 
neither  the  antiphlogistic,  nor  the  stimulant,  nor  the 
tonic,  nor  the  derivative,  method  of  treatment  is  of  any 
avail.  I  dare  not  follow  any  of  them.  To  what,  then, 
am  I  reduced  1  To  the  EXPECTANT  !  Just  what  that 


THE   WATER-CARRIER.  161 

sensible  American*  declared  after  a  practice  of  nearly 
half-a-century,  to  wit,  'that  we  had  better  leave  the 
disease  to  cure  itself,  as  remedies,  especially  powerful 
ones,  are  more  likely  to  do  harm  than  good.'  Well, 
well,  the  boy  has  a  stout  frame,  and  by  carefully  watch- 
ing— but  his  courage  is  gone — his  courage  is  gone — 
there's  the  rub ;"  and  Dr.  Lanote  got  into  his  carriage 
and  drove  away. 

The  Doctor  called  daily,  sometimes  twice  a  day,  while 
the  fever  gradually  crept  through  Paul's  system,  and  ap- 
proached the  crisis.  He  had  taken  no  medicine.  Dr. 
Lanote  would  prescribe  nothing,  except,  perhaps,  a  little 
barley-water,  weak  lemonade,  or  something  of  the  sort. 

Notwithstanding  Old  Mannette  was  as  economical  as 
she  could  be,  it  was  necessary  to  make  some  trifling 
purchases  which  she  had  no  means  of  supplying.  Paul 
had  at  first  resolutely  resisted  any  encroachments  on  his 
treasure.  One  day  Dr.  Lanote  came  in  and  recom- 
mended her  to  procure  two  or  three  little  articles  which 
were  really  necessary  for  his  comfort.  Old  Mannette 
looked  mournfully  at  Paul.  "You  hear,"  she  said, 
"  what  the  good  Doctor  advises  1" 

« Dr.  Lanote  doubtless  referred  to  Dr.  Nathan  Smith,  unques- 
tionably the  most  eminent  physician  this  country  has  ever  furnished, 
and  who  adopted  and  introduced  a  new  method  of  treatment  in  typhus 
fever. 


162      ROMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

"I  must  do  without  them,"   said  he,  in  as  decided  a 

tone  as  his  weak  voice  would  permit. 

% 
"A  miser,  and  so  young !"•  cried  Dr.  Lanote  a  little 

sharply. 

"I  hoarded  my  money  to  buy  a  horse  and  cart," 
answered  Paul,  bitterly. 

A  compression  of  the  lips  and  a  slight  tremulous 
movement  of  the  muscles  of  the  mouth  could  be  per- 
ceived ;  but  the  Doctor  manifested  no  other  sign  that  he 
had  heard  a  word  that  Paul  was  saying. 

As  for  Paul,  he  now  submitted  to  his  fate,  because 
he  could  no  longer  resist  it.  His  hopes  were  fled,  every 
one  of  them,  and  he  really  did  not  care  what  became 
of  him. 

By  degrees  his  purse  grew  lighter  and  lighter,  for 
Dr.  Lanote  would  have  his  own  way,  and  Paul  ceased 
to  give  a  thought  on  the  subject. 

The  Doctor  continued  unremitting  in  his  visits,  and 
kept  the  strictest  watch  of  every  symptom,  so  that  he 
might  check  at  once  any  of  those  intercurrent  affections 
which  are  so  apt  to  appear  in  the  disease,  should  any 
be  manifest. 

The  fever  at  last  had  spent  its  force,  and  the  crisis 
approached.  The  principal  danger  was  to  be  appre- 
hended from  Paul's  utter  despondency.  I  should  not  say 
despondency.  He  had  reached  a  lower  point,  for  he 


THE   WATER-CARRIEK. 

had  ceased  to  despond.  If  he  had  any  wish  at  all,  it 
was  that  he  might  escape  from  the  world.  Poor  Paul ! 

It  was  near  evening.  Paul  had  been  sick  fourteen  days, 
and  the  crisis  of  the  fever  had  come.  Dr.  Lanote  stood, 
by  our  hero's  bedside  with  a  perplexed  aspect.  At  last 
he  said  to  him,  "  Mon  enfant,  you  must  bestir  your- 
self— pass  but  a  good  night,  and  to-morrow  you  will  be 
better." 

"  I  do  not  want  to  be  better,"  said  Paul,  faintly — "  I 
want  to  go ;  it  will  be  soon,  I  hope." 

"  Ah,  very  well,"  said  the  Doctor,  "  if  I  can  be  of 
any  service  to  you,  command  me.  I  will  see  to  any  thing 
you  intrust  to  me." 

Paul  made  no  reply,  but  whispered,  in  a  low  tone, 
"  Fanchette." 

"  Fanchette  T'  cried  Dr.  Lanote.  "What  Fanchette? 
Is  it  the  Fanchette  who  is  soon  to  be  married  to  Jean 
Grilliet." 

Paul  opened  his  eyes  very  wide,  notwithstanding  his 
weak  state  :  an  electric  shock  had  been  administered. 

"  What  do  you  say  T  he  asked  with  considerable 
energy. 

"I  spoke  of  Fanchette  Crosier,  the  lass  Jean  Grilliet 
is  about  to  marry,  and  a  nice  fellow  he  is  too.  I 
only  hope  the  girl  is  half  as  good  as  he  is.  But  why 
do  you  speak  of  Fanchette — is  she  any  thing  to  you  ?" 


164      ROMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

"  Fanchette  Crosier  to  be  married !"  exclaimed  Paul, 
endeavouring  to  raise  himself. 

"  Certainly — why  not,  mon  enfant  ?  These  young 
girls  all  have  their  day,  and  so  do  the  boys  as  well. 
If  you  will  but  bestir  yourself,  your  own  turn  will  come 
by  and  by.  I  know  a  pretty  little  mischievous  creature 
that  I  will  recommend  for  you,  if  you  will  only  promise 
to  behave  yourself,  worth  a  dozen  of  this  Fanchette,  if 
you  ever  cared  for  her." 

The  perspiration  streamed  from  Paul's  face ;  this  time 
he  was  completely  electrified.  He  looked  sharply  at  Dr. 
Lanote,  who  stood  the  very  personification  of  innocence 
and  simplicity. 

"  It  is  false,"  he  finally  exclaimed :  "  I  won't  believe 
a  word  of  it.  If  I  thought  it  were  possible " 

"  Just  make  a  journey  home  and  see  for  yourself," 
interrupted  the  Doctor,  "  and  if  I  have  misinformed  you, 
I  will  pay  the  whole  expense  of  it." 

"  Then  I  have  my  mother  to  LIVE  for,"  said  our 
hero;  and,  worn  out  by  the  natural  vehemence  of  his 
feelings,  he  sank  exhausted  on  his  pillow,  and  in  a  few 
minutes  was  fast  asleep. 

"  Done — c'estfini  " — muttered  Dr.  Lanote  emphatically. 

"  What  is  done  ? — Mon  Dieu  I — What  is  finished  ? 
Dear  Doctor — dear  Doctor  Lanote !"  cried  Old  Man- 
nette  in  an  excited  tone. 


THE   WATER-CARRIKK.  165 

"Nurse,"  said  Dr.  Lanote,  "I  am  surprised  to  see 
you  forget  yourself.  In  former  times  you  would  not 
have  been  guilty  of  such  imprudence.  You  perceive 
that  the  boy  slumbers  naturally.  It  is  the  only  thing 
•which  will  save  him.  Keep  every  .thing  quiet,  every 
thing  comfortable.  Let  him  sleep  this  way  through  the 
night,  and  he  is  safe. 

"An  excusable  artifice,"  muttered  the  Doctor  to 
himself;  "  it  touched  his  vitality — case  for  record — 
will  look  in  early;"  and  with  another  glance  at  the 
slumbering  Paul,  and  another  nod  of  satisfaction,  the 
Doctor  hurried  away. 

It  happened  precisely  as  Dr.  Lanote  had  predicted. 
Paul  slumbered  soundly  all  night,  while  Old  Mannette 
never  left  his  side,  and  the  next  morning  he  opened 
his  eyes  very  weak  and  very  helpless,  but  really  a  new 
man. 

Old  Mannette  perceived  at  once  the  happy  change. 
She  would  not  permit  Paul  to  speak  a  word,  but  whis- 
pered to  him  that  he  was  rapidly  getting  better!  The 
latter  endeavoured  to  collect  his  senses.  At  length 
what  the  Doctor  had  told  him  of  Fanchette  flashed  upon 
him.  He  groaned  aloud — he  could  not  help  it:  then  he 
asked  himself,  "Could  it  be  true1?"  and  then  he  felt 
an  impatient  desire  to  get  well,  and  satisfy  himself  on  the 
point.  At  this  juncture,  Dr.  Lanote  came  gently  into  the 


166      BOMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

room.  Approaching  Paul's  bed,  he  took  his  hand  and 
said  cheerfully,  "Now,  my  bon  enfant,  you  have  only 
to  keep  quiet  and  get  well,  and  I  will  see  what  can  be 
done  for  you." 

"It  won't  do  to  undeceive  him  yet,"  he  said  to 
himself;  "we  must  wait  till  he  has  more  strength." 

Although  Paul  had  at  first  taken  a  great  antipathy 
to  the  Doctor,  he  had  already  begun  to  experience  a 
change  in  his  feelings  towards  him.  He  even  endeav- 
oured to  return  the  pressure  of  the  Doctor's  hand,  and 
was  about  expressing  some  words  of  gratitude,  when  the 
latter  prevented  him  from  speaking. 

"Not  a  word  now — in  a  few  days  you  may  talk  as 
much  as  you  like :"  and  after  giving  further  directions 
to  Old  Mannette,  he  directed  her  in  a  whisper  not  to 
spare  the  few  remaining  francs  which  Paul  might  have 
left,  but  to  be  sure  and  procure  certain  little  delicacies 
which  he  was  even  so  paiticular  as  to  name  to  her. 

Things  now  went  on  well  enough :  to  be  sure,  Paul's 
money  was  all  gone;  not  a  sous,  not  a  centime,  was 
left  in  the  purse  his  mother  had  given  him;  indeed,  for 
several  days  Dr.  Lanote  had  himself  supplied  all  the 
desired  superfluities.  But  Paul  himself  was  gaining 
rapidly :  after  a  while  he  could  sit  up  a  little ;  then 
he  could  walk  a  few  times  across  the  room ;  at  length 
he  could  dress  himself.  He  began  to  be  very  impatient 


THE   WATER-CARRIER.  167 

to  get  out  and  breathe  the  air ;  but  the  Doctor  restrained 
him,  and  Paul  was  too  grateful  to  be  disobedient.  He 
was,  however,  filled  with  but  one  thought:  it  was  to 
go  back  to  his  native  village  and  satisfy  himself  of 
the  truth  or  falsehood  of  the  story  that  Fanchette  had 
really  given  herself  to  a  rival.  The  stronger  Paul 
grew,  the  less  he  was  inclined  to  credit  the  tale,  and 
therefore  the  more  desponding  he  became  with  regard  to 
his  own  prospects.  A  singular  paradox  truly,  but  so  it 
was,  and  such  is  human  nature 

It  was  now  early  in  the  spring,  and  on  one  pleasant 
day  Dr.  Lanote  called  in  somewhat  later  than  usual, 
and  bade  Paul  equip  himself  warmly,  and  he  would 
promise  him  a  drive.  Old  Mannette  bustled  about  in 
high  spirits — indeed,  with  a  glee  that  seemed  rather  ex- 
travagant, and  which  was  by  no  means  in  accordance  with 
Paul's  depressed  feelings,  The  latter,  however,  was  soon 
ready,  and  the  three  now  slowly  descended  to  the  street. 

At  the  entrance  to  the  court-yard  there  was  a  horse 
and  cart,  while  a  smart,  active-looking  young  fellow  stood 
on  the  latter,  as  if  waiting  for  orders. 

" It  is  the  new  water-carrier"  whispered  Old  Mannette 
to  Paul.  Paul  looked  at  him  with  a  melancholy  expres- 
sion, and  was  about  to  turn  away,  when  the  man  jumped 
lightly  from  the  cart,  and  touching  his  hat,  said,  "  Is  this 
Monsieur  Paul  Ferval  ?" 


168     ROMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

"  Paul  Ferval  is  my  name,"  said  our  hero. 

"  I  have  brought  round  the  new  cart  you  ordered  some 
time  since  ;  it  should  have  been  here  yesterday,  but  it  was 
not  quite  finished.  Your  horse  feels  well  this  morning — he 
has  not  been  used  lately.  He  is  in  excellent  condition 
for  work — that  you  may  depend  on." 

Paul  Ferval  was  thunderstruck.  He  could  not  say  a 
word,  but  stared  first  at  the  man,  then  at  Dr.  Lanote, 
and  finally  at  Old  Mannette.  The  doctor  was  the  first  to 
speak.  "  You  may  drive  into  the  court-yard,"  he  said 
to  the  man,  "  and  wait  till  we  come  back.  Come,  Paul, 
I  have  no  time  to  lose — get  in." 

The  fresh  air  and  the  pleasant  sun  and  the  agreeable 
change  had  a  sensible  effect  on  Paul's  feelings ;  but  when 
Dr.  Lanote  remarked  very  gravely  that  he  believed  he 
had  a  mistake  to  correct;  he  had  ascertained  that  the 
Fanchette  who  was  to  be  married  to  Jean  Grilliet,  was 
not  Fanchette  Crosier — Paul's  Fanchette — but  doubtless 
some  other  Fanchette,  and  so  forth ;  and  when  he  added 
further,  that,  instead  of  the  wager  which  he  had  ventured 
to  make  of  Paul's  expenses  home  to  ascertain  the  fact, 
he  thought  he  would  substitute  a  good  horse  and  cart 
and  equipments,  which  he  had  that  morning  delivered, 
— Paul  actually  threw  his  arms  around  the  good  Doctor 
and  embraced  him,  frantic  with  happiness. 

The  rest  you  can  all  guess.     Paul   was   soon  strong 


THE   WATER-CARRIER.  169 

enough — he  went  to  work — he  enlarged  his  business — he 
was  lucky  in  every  thing  he  did;  he  was  the  most 
successful  water-carrier  in  all  Paris.  £ravo,  Paul  Ferval ! 

Paul  kept  his  three  years'  truce  religiously.  I  won't  say, 
in  all  that  time  he  heard  nothing  from  Fanchette  Crosier. 
I  am  inclined  to  think  the  little  baggage  knew  just  how 
Paul  was  getting  on  from  one  month  to  another  after  he 
began  with  that  horse  and  cart. 

Well,  the  three  years  were  up,  and  Paul  had  accumula- 
ted enough,  certainly,  to  come  within  the  moderate  limits 
set  by  old  Nicolas  Crosier. 

Yes,  the  three  years  were  up,  and  Paul  had  returned 
his  native  village  and  made  glad  the  heart  of  his  good, 
fond  mother. 

The  next  morning,  after  having  equipped  himself  in 
his  best,  and  received  his  mother's  caresses  and  compli- 
ments, he  left  the  cottage  and  took  the  road  to  Nicolas 
Crosier's. 

It  was  a  pleasant  summer's  day,  and  the  old  fellow 
sat  after  dinner  on  the  same  balcony,  and  in  the  same 
chair,  and  precisely  on  the  same  spot,  where  he  was  seated 
three  years  before,  when  he  made  the  compact  with  Paul 
and  relieved  himself  of  the  handsome  vagabond,  as  he  used 
to  call  him.  Nicolas  had  altered  but  little  in  appearance, 
in  habit,  or  in  disposition,  so  far  as  one  could  see,  unless  to 

become  a  little  more  arbitrary,  a  little  more  sedentary, 

8 


168     ROMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

"  Paul  Ferval  is  my  name,"  said  our  hero. 

"  I  have  brought  round  the  new  cart  you  ordered  some 
time  since  j  it  should  have  been  here  yesterday,  but  it  was 
not  quite  finished.  Your  horse  feels  well  this  morning — he 
has  not  been  used  lately.  He  is  in  excellent  condition 
for  work — that  you  may  depend  on." 

Paul  Ferval  was  thunderstruck.  He  could  not  say  a 
word,  but  stared  first  at  the  man,  then  at  Dr.  Lanote, 
and  finally  at  Old  Mannette.  The  doctor  was  the  first  to 
speak.  "  You  may  drive  into  the  court-yard,"  he  said 
to  the  man,  "and  wait  till  we  come  back.  Come,  Paul, 
I  have  no  time  to  lose — get  in." 

The  fresh  air  and  the  pleasant  sun  and  the  agreeable 
change  had  a  sensible  effect  on  Paul's  feelings ;  but  when 
Dr.  Lanote  remarked  very  gravely  that  he  believed  he 
had  a  mistake  to  correct;  he  had  ascertained  that  the 
Fanchette  who  was  to  be  married  to  Jean  Grilliet,  was 
not  Fanchette  Crosier — Paul's  Fanchette — but  doubtless 
some  other  Fanchette,  and  so  forth ;  and  when  he  added 
further,  that,  instead  of  the  wager  which  he  had  ventured 
to  make  of  Paul's  expenses  home  to  ascertain  the  fact, 
he  thought  he  would  substitute  a  good  horse  and  cart 
and  equipments,  which  he  had  that  morning  delivered, 
— Paul  actually  threw  his  arms  around  the  good  Doctor 
and  embraced  him,  frantic  with  happiness. 

The  rest  you  can  all  guess.     Paul   was   soon  strong 


THE  WATER-CARRIER.  169 

enough — he  went  to  work — he  enlarged  his  business — he 
was  lucky  in  every  thing  he  did ;  he  was  the  most 
successful  water-carrier  in  all  Paris.  Bravo,  Paul  Ferval ! 

Paul  kept  his  three  years'  truce  religiously.  I  won't  say, 
in  all  that  time  he  heard  nothing  from  Fanchette  Crosier. 
I  am  inclined  to  think  the  little  baggage  knew  just  how 
Paul  was  getting  on  from  one  month  to  another  after  he 
began  with  that  horse  and  cart. 

Well,  the  three  years  were  up,  and  Paul  had  accumula- 
ted enough,  certainly,  to  come  within  the  moderate  limits 
set  by  old  Nicolas  Crosier. 

Yes,  the  three  years  were  up,  and  Paul  had  returned 
his  native  village  and  made  glad  the  heart  of  his  good, 
fond  mother. 

The  next  morning,  after  having  equipped  himself  in 
his  best,  and  received  his  mother's  caresses  and  compli- 
ments, he  left  the  cottage  and  took  the  road  to  Nicolas 
Crosier's. 

It  was  a  pleasant  summer's  day,  and  the  old  fellow 
sat  after  dinner  on  the  same  balcony,  and  in  the  same 
chair,  and  precisely  on  the  same  spot,  where  he  was  seated 
three  years  before,  when  he  made  the  compact  with  Paul 
and  relieved  himself  of  the  handsome  vagabond,  as  he  used 
to  call  him.  Nicolas  had  altered  but  little  in  appearance, 
in  habit,  or  hi  disposition,  so  far  as  one  could  see,  unless  to 
become  a  little  more  arbitrary,  a  little  more  sedentary, 


170     KOMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

and  a  little  more  gray.  On  the  contrary,  Paul  had  changed 
wonderfully.  His  frame  was  stouter,  his  shoulders  were 
broader,  his  form  larger  and  more  manly.  Besides,  he  had 
cultivated,  or  rather  left  uncultivated,  his  beard  and 
whiskers  and  moustache,  after  the  mode  called  in  Paris 
" inculte"  and  was  really  a  formidable  fellow  to  look  at. 
He  marched  with  a  firm  step  toward  Nicolas  Crosier. 

" Bon  jour,  Monsieur  Nicolas  Crosier"  said  Paul,  in  a 
firm,  strong  voice. 

Nicolas  rubbed  his  eyes,  but  he  did  not  recognise  the 
stranger. 

" Bon  jour"  he  replied. 

"  I  understand  you  desire  to  dispose  of  a  part  of  your 
farm,"  said  Paul.  "If  so,  I  should  like  to  become  the 
purchaser." 

" Diable"  growled  Nicolas  Crosier.  "  And  /  should 
like  to  know  who  has  been  putting  such  nonsense  into 
your  head." 

"  I  want  to  build  a  neat  little  cottage,"  continued 
Paul,  without  heeding  what  was  said,  "  and  it  strikes  me 
I  could  not  be  better  suited  than  hereabouts." 

Nicolas  Crosier  rose  slowly  to  his  feet ;  something 
in  the  tone  and  manner  of  the  stranger  was  familiar  to 
him — something,  too,  he  seemed  to  recollect  about  land, 
a  cottage,  and  Paul  Ferval.  He  came  close  to  Paul 
— he  recognised  him.  What  he  would  have  done  by  way 


THE   WATER-CARRIER.  171 

of  further  demonstration  I  am  unable  to  say,  for  at  that 
moment  out  ran  both  wife  and  daughter,  and  such  a  scene 
as  there  was,  and  such  fools  as  they  all  made  of  them- 
selves— according  to  old  Nicolas,  who  stood  waiting  to 
put  in  a  word,  but  could  get  no  opportunity — it  would 
be  quite  impossible  to  describe. 

After  a  time,  however,  the  excitement  began  to  sub- 
side, and  Paul,  taking  his  purse  from  his  pocket — the 
same  purse  his  mother  had  pressed  on  him — now  well 
filled  with  gold-pieces — handed  it  to  Nicolas  Crosier, 
saying,  "Is  this  sufficient?  have  I  performed  my  part 
of  the  contract  ?" 

"  Sucre  bleu  !  yes,  and  you  shall  see  if  I  will  perform 
mine.  Here,  Fanchette — come  here.  But,  perhaps,"  said 
Nicolas,  stopping  suddenly  short  and  trying  to  assume  a 
serious  expression,  "perhaps  Fanchette  won't  ratify — ha 
— ha — ha!  You  know  I  was  not  to  interfere  with  her. 
— Fanchette,  you  little  witch,  what  do  you  say? — ha — 
ha— ha !" 

What  Fanchette  said,  and  so  forth,  and  so  forth, 
and  so  forth,  you  may  judge  for  yourselves)  Messieurs, 
when  I  tell  you  that  the  wedding  took  place  last  Tues- 
day, and  Old  Mannette,  who  of  course  was  sent  for  on 
the  occasion,  returned  to  town  yesterday,  from  whom  I 
have  had  the  whole  tale. 

'•'And  an  excellent  one  it  is,"   shouted   all   present. 


172      ROMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

"Let  us  fill  and  drink  the  health  of  Paul  and  his  pretty- 
wife — long  life  to  them  !" 

The  company  broke  up  in  great  glee.  Laughing, 
talking,  singing,  and  making  other  lively  demonstrations, 
they  dispersed  to  their  several  apartments. 

Nobody  thought  of  Ernst  von  Wolzogen  and  his  pic- 
ture ! 


MORNINGS   AT   LA   MORGUE.  173 


CHAPTEE   VIII. 

MORNINGS     AT    LA     MORGUE. 

A  MORNING  at  La  Morgue  is  hardly  as  agreeable  as 
a  day  at  the  Louvre,  yet  it  is  not  without  a  certain  fas- 
cination. Let  but  the  influence  once  fasten  on  you,  and 
it  will  be  very  hard  to  shake  it  off.  At  one  period  I 
confess  it  was  to  me  almost  irresistible,  and  I  shudder 
sometimes,  when  I  recollect  how  punctually  every  morn- 
ing, at  the  same  hour,  I  took  my  place  on  one  side  of 
that  fearful  room — not  for  the  purpose  of  inspecting  the 
bodies  of  the  suicides,  (I  rarely  turned  to  look  at  them,) 
but  to  regard  the  countenances  of  the  anxious  ones  who 
came  to  realize  the  worst,  or  to  take  hope  till  the  morrow. 
Literally,  there  are  no  spectators  in  that  dismal  solitude 
— if  we  except  an  occasional  visit  from  the  foreign  sight- 
hunter,  who  comes  in  charge  of  a  valet,  and  passes  in 
and  out  and  away  to  the  "  next  place."  In  London  or 
in  New  York,  an  establishment  so  public  would  be 
thronged  with  persons  eager  to  gratify  a  prurient  curi- 
osity. Not  so  in  Paris.  The  French  possess  a  sensi- 


174      ROMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

bility  so  refined — it  may  be  called  a  species  of  delicacy 
— that  they  cannot  enjoy  such  a  spectacle,  can  scarcely 
endure  it :  and  if  the  tourist  will  bring  the  subject  to 
mind,  he  will  find  that  while  his  guide  pointed  out  the 
entrance,  he  himself  declined  going  into  the  apartment. 

I  know  not  how  it  happened,  but,  as  I  have  remarked, 
the  habit  of  visiting  this  spot  every  morning  was  fast- 
ened on  me.  Never  shall  I  forget  some  of  the  faces 
I  encountered  there.  One  image  is  impressed  on  me 
indelibly ;  it  is  that  of  a  woman  of  middle  age,  with 
a  very  pale  face,  and  having  the  appearance  of  one  strug- 
gling with  some  wearing  sorrow,  who  for  two  weeks 
in  succession  came  in  daily,  and,  walking  painfully  up  to 
the  partition,  looked  intently  through  the  lattice-work, 
and  turned  and  went  away.  I  never  before  felt  so 
strong  an  impulse  to  accost  a  person,  without  yielding 
to  it.  Indeed,  I  had  resolved  to  speak  to  her  on  the 
morning  of  the  fifteenth  day,  but  she  did  not  come,  and 
I  never  saw  her  again.  Who  was  she1?  did  her  fears 
prove  groundless  1  what  became  of  her  1  An  old  man 
I  remember  to  have  seen — a  very  old  man,  feeble  and 
decrepit,  who  came  once  only,  looked  at  the  dead,  shook 
his  head  despairingly,  and  tottered  away :  I  know  not 
if  he  discovered  the  object  of  his  search.  Young  girls 
who  had  quarrelled  with  their  lovers,  and  lovers  who  in 
moments  of  jealousy  had  been  cruel  to  their  sweethearts, 


MORNINGS  AT   LA  MORGUE.  175 

would  look  anxiously  in,  and  generally  with  relieved  spirits 
pass  out,  almost  smilingly,  resolving  no  doubt  to  make 
all  up  before  night  should  again  tempt  to  suicide.  An- 
other incident  I  cannot  omit,  although  it  is  impossible  to 
recall  it  without  a  dreadful  pang.  One  morning  a  pretty 
fair-haired  child,  not  more  than  four  years  old,  came 
running  in,  and  clasping  the  wooden  bar  with  one  hand, 
pointed  with  her  little  finger  through  the  opening,  and 
with  a  tone  of  innocent  curiosity  said,  "  There's  mamma !" 
The  same  moment  two  or  three  rushed  in,  and,  seizing 
the  unconscious  orphan,  carried  her  hastily  away.  She 
had  wandered  after  some  of  the  family,  and  heard  enough 
as  they  came  from  the  fatal  place  to  lead  her  to  suppose 
her  lost  mamma  was  there,  and  so  she  ran  to  see.  What 
could  be  the  circumstances  so  untoward,  that  even  the 
child  could  not  bind  the  mother  to  life  ? 

A  long  chapter  might  be  written  of  the  occurrences  at 
my  singular  rendezvous,  but  I  had  no  design  of  alluding 
to  any  of  them :  they  naturally  come  to  mind,  and  I  as 
naturally  speak  of  them  in  connection  with  what  I  am 
now  going  to  relate. 

Before  the  winter  was  fairly  upon  us,  I  resolved  to 
spend  it  in  the  south  of  Europe.  Partridge,  much  as 
he  desired  to  accompany  me,  would  not  break  in  on 
his  settled  plans.  He  was  quite  right ;  but  as  our  pro- 
fessions were  to  be  different,  I  had '  not  so  good  reasons 


176      EOMAKCB  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

as  he  for  remaining  in  Paris.  Accordingly  I  left  for 
Italy.  In  this  way,  I  got  rid  of  the  horrible  nightmare 
impulse  to  which  I  have  alluded,  and  although  I  returned 
the  following  season  I  never  again  entered  La  Morgue.  .  . 

It  was  in  the  summer  when  I  came  back.  The  foliage 
was  deep  and  green,  and  in  the  Jardin  des  Plants,  which 
was  near  my  quarters,  the  various  flowers  and  shrubs 
and  trees  filled  the  atmosphere  with  fragrance,  and 
tempted  us  to  frequent  strolls  along  its  avenues. 

"  Come  with  me  at  six  o'clock,"  said  my  friend  Part- 
ridge, "  and  you  shall  see  an  apparition." 

"Where?" 

"  I  will  not  tell  you  till  we  are  on  the  spot." 

"  I  will  go,  but  hope  the  place  is  an  agreeable  one." 
Just  then,  I  know  not  why,  I  thought  of  La  Morgue, 
and  shuddered. 

"The  most  agreeable  in  all  Paris." 

This  conversation  took  place  in  the  Hospital,  just  as 
we  were  finishing  our  morning  occupation  of  following 
Louis  through  the  fever  wards.  Partridge  was  once  more 
my  room-mate,  having,  as  I  have  said,  remained  behind 
during  my  late  tour,  to  devote  himself  more  entirely  to 
his  medical  pursuits,  while  I,  beginning  to  tire  of  the 
lectures  of  Broussais,  and  the  teachings  of  Majendie, 
yielded  to  the  temptation  and  ran  away  from  both; 


SCENE   IN  THE   GARDEN.  177 

and,  even  now  that  I  had  returned,  was  induced  every 
day  to  slip  across  to  the  rue  Vivienne,  where  were 
staying  some  fascinating  strangers,  whose  acquaintance  I 
had  made  en  route,  and  who  had  begun  to  engross  me 
too  much  for  any  steady  progress  in  my  studies ;  at 
least,  so  thought  Partridge,  who  shook  his  head  and 
said  it  would  not  do  for  a  student  to  cross  the  Seine — 
he  ought  to  stay  in  his  own  quartier — that  I  had  too 
much  recreation  as  it  was — I  should  forget  the  little  I 
knew — and  as  for  the  rue  Vimenne,  and  the  Boulevart 
des  Italiens,  the  rue  de  la  Paix,  &c.,  I  must  break  otT 
all  such  associations  or  be  read  out  of  the  community. 
I  was  glad,  therefore,  to  appease  my  friend  by  consent- 
ing to  go  with  him — I  knew  not  where — and  see  an 
apparition. 

Accordingly,  a  few  minutes  before  six,  we  started  to- 
gether on  the  strange  adventure.  We  passed  down  the 
street  which  leads  to  the  Jardin  des  Plants,  and,  entering 
through  the  main  avenue,  walked  nearly  its  entire  length, 
when  my  companion  turned  into  a  narrow  path,  almost 
concealed  by  the  foliage,  which  brought  us  into  a  small 
open  space.  Here  he  motioned  me  to  stop,  and,  pointing 
to  a  rustic  bench,  we  both  sat  down.  At  the  same  mo- 
ment, the  chimes  from  a  neighbouring  chapel  pealed  the 
hour  of  six,  and  while  I  was  still  listening  to  them,  my 
friend  seized  my  arm  and  exclaimed  in  a  whisper,  "  Look !" 

8* 


178     ROMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

I  cast  my  eyes  across  to  the  other  side,  and  beheld  a 
figure  advancing  slowly  toward  us.  It  was  that  of  a 
young  girl,  in  appearance  scarcely  seventeen.  Her  form 
was  light  and  graceful,  simply  draped  in  a  loose  robe  of 
white  muslin.  On  her  head  she  wore  a  straw  hat,  in 
which  were  placed  conspicuously  a  bunch  of  fresh  spring 
blossoms.  The  gloves  and  mantelet  seemed  to  have 
been  forgotten.  Her  demeanour  was  one  of  gentleness 
and  modesty.  She  cast  her  eyes  around  as  if  expecting 
to  meet  a  companion,  and  then  quietly  sat  down  on 
a  rude  seat  not  very  far  from  where  we  were.  I  re- 
mained for  ten  minutes  patiently  waiting  a  demonstration 
of  some  kind,  either  from  my  companion  or  the  strange 
appearance  near  us.  But  now  I  began  to  yield  to  the 
influence  of  the  scene.  The  sun  was  declining,  and  cast 
a  mellow  and  saddening  light  over  the  various  objects 
around.  Gradually,  as  I  gazed  on  the  motionless  form 
of  the  maiden,  I  felt  impressed  with  awe,  which  was 
heightened  by  the  solemn  manner  of  my  friend,  who 
appeared  as  much  under  the  charm  as  myself.  At 
length  I  whispered  to  him,  "  For  Heaven's  sake,  tell 
me  what  does  all  this  mean  ?"  A  low  "  Hush,"  with 
an  expressive  gesture  to  enforce  quiet,  was  the  only 
response.  I  made  no  further  attempt  to  interrupt  the 
silence,  but  sat  spell-bound,  always  looking  at  the  figure, 
until  I  was  positively  afraid  to  take  my  eyes  from  it. 


PARTRIDGE   EXPLAINS.  179 

Again  the  chimes  began  their  peal  for  the  completion 
of  the  last  quarter.  It  was  seven  o'clock.  The  moment 
they  ceased,  the  girl  rose  from  her  seat,  glanced  slowly, 
sadly,  earnestly  around,  pressed  her  hands  across  her 
eyes,  and  proceeded  in  her  path  toward  us.  We  both 
stood  up  as  she  came  near;  my  friend  lifted  his  hat 
from  his  head  in  the  most  respectful  manner  as  the 
maiden  passed,  while  she  in  return  gazed  vacantly  on 
him,  and,  walking  slowly  by,  disappeared  in  the  direction 
opposite  that  from  which  she  came.  We  did  not  remain, 
but  proceeded  with  a  quickened  pace  to  our  lodgings. 
Arrived  there,  I  asked  for  an  explanation  of  what  we  had 
witnessed. 

"  Do  you  remember,"  asked  Partridge,  "  Alfred  Der- 
villy  ?" 

"Perfectly.  He  was  your  room-mate  after  I  left 
you  last  winter,  and  twenty  times  I  have  been  on  the 
point  of  inquiring  for  him,  but  something  at  each  moment 
prevented.  Where  is  he  ?" 

«  Dead." 

"Dead!     How?    when?" 

"Killed  by   the   apparition  yonder." 

"  Nonsense !  Do  not  talk  any  more  in  riddles.  Out 
with  what  you  have  to  say  about  Dervilly  and  the 
apparition,  as  you  call  it,  and  this  afternoon's  adven- 
ture." 


ISO      ROMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

"  JBien,  let  us  light  the  candles,  fasten  the  doors,  close 
the  windows,  and  take  a  fresh  segar." 

This  was  soon  done,  and,  accommodating  himself  to 
his  seat  in  a  comfortable  manner,  my  companion  com- 
menced the  history  of 


"  YES — you  recollect  Dervilly  of  course,  and  must 
remember  that  before  you  left  us  we  used  to  joke  him 
about  a  fair  unknown,  who  was  engaging  so  much  of  his 
time." 

"  I  had  forgotten — but  I  now  recall  the  circumstance ; 
I  remember,  I  was  walking  with  him  near  the  '  Garden,' 
and  he  made  some  trivial  excuse  to  leave  me  and  turn  into 
it.  You  afterwards  told  me  he  had  an  appointment  there, 
but  I  thought  little  of  it." 

"Well,  I  will  give  you  the  story  as  I  now  have  it, 
quite  complete,  for  I  was  partly  in  Dervilly's  confidence, 
and  was  with  him  during  his  illness,  and  when  he  died. 
He  was  born  in  Louisiana,  of  French  parents,  who,  after 
spending  some  years  in  America,  returned  to  their  na- 
tive country.  He  spoke  English  fluently,  as  you  know, 
and  when  you  deserted  me  we  became  very  intimate. 
Then  it  was  I  learned  how  deeply  the  poor  fellow  was 
in  love,  actually  in  love.  No  mere  transitory  emotion 


THE   FAIR  MYSTEKY.  181 

— no  momentary  passion  for  an  adventure — no  affair  of 
gallantry,  was  this :  his  very  being  was  absorbed — he 
became  wholly  changed — it  seemed  as  if  he  had  bound 
himself,  body  and  soul,  to  some  spirit  of  another  world. 
I  never  saw,  never  read,  of  so  engrossing  a  feeling.  At 
last  he  confessed  to  me.  He  said  he  had  met,  a  few 
months  before,  at  the  house  of  a  former  friend  of  his 
family,  who  had  been  of  considerable  consequence  under 
the  previous  reign,  but  was  now  reduced,  and  lived  in 
obscurity,  a  creature  of  most  exquisite  shape  and  feature, 
who  proved  on  acquaintance  to  be  possessed  with  a  loveli- 
ness of  character,  a  modesty,  an  irresistible  charm  of 
manner,  which  took  him  captive.  Dervilly  became  com- 
pletely enamoured  with  Emilie  de  Coigny.  This  he 
discovered  to  be  her  name,  but  on  inquiring  of  the  per- 
sons at  whose  house  he  first  met  her,  he  could  get  no 
satisfactory  information ;  indeed,  a  very  singular  reserve, 
as  poor  Dervilly  thought,  was  maintained  whenever  she 
was  mentioned,  so  that  he  could  not,  in  fact,  glean  the 
slightest  particulars  about  her.  This  did  not  prevent 
him  from  confessing  his  passion,  for  the  girl  came  fre- 
quently to  this  house,  and  their  acquaintance  ripened 
very  fast.  Emilie  de  Coigny  felt  for  the  first  time  that 
her  heart  was  occupied,  and  all  that  restlessness  of  spirit 
caused  by  the  unconscious  longing  of  the  affections  laid 
at  rest,  and  Alfred  Dervilly  became  the  sole  object  of  her 


182      ROMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

hopes,  if  hopes  she  had.  All  this,  I  repeat,  Emilie  de 
Coigny  felt ;  but,  singular  to  say,  she  hesitated  to  confess 
it,  even  when  her  lover  passionately  entreated;  it  seemed 
as  if  something  stood  between  her  and  happiness,  to 
which  she  feared  to  allude.  It  is  not  easy  to  deceive 
the  heart,  and  Dervilly  knew,  despite  the  apparent 
calmness  of  Emilie,  despite  her  sometimes  cold  de- 
meanour, that  he  was  loved  in  return.  But  one  thing 
troubled  and  perplexed  him ;  one  thing  filled  him  with 
vague  fears  and  apprehensions,  and  checked  the  ecstatic 
feelings  which  were  ready  to  overflow  within  him.  A 
mystery  hung  about  this  beautiful  girl ;  she  claimed 
no  one  for  her  friend,  she  spoke  of  no  acquaintances, 
she  never  alluded  to  parents,  or  to  brother  or  sister,  or 
other  relation ;  she  made  no  mention  of  her  home.  Be- 
sides, a  strange  sadness,  strange  in  one  so  young,  seemed 
to  possess  her,  and  to  pervade  her  spirit;  and  while 
contemplating  that  imperturbable  countenance,  Dervilly 
at  times  felt  an  awe  come  over  him  for  which  he  could 
not  account,  and  which  for  moments  subdued  even  the 
force  of  his  passion.  It  appeared  to  him  then,  as  if  he 
were  under  a  spell ;  but  presently,  when  a  gentle  smile 
illumined  her  face,  her  eyes  would  be  turned  on  him 
so  lovingly,  and  her  look  express,  as  plainly  as  look  could, 
that  all  her  trust  was  in  him  and  in  him  only.  Dervilly 
would  forget  every  thing  in  the  raptures  of  such  mo- 


THE   FAIR  MYSTERY.  183 

merits;  indeed,  in  his  ecstasy  he  would  be  driven  almost 
to  madness;  for  of  all  characters,"  continued  Partridge, 
"hers  was  the  one  to  set  a  youth  of  ardent  temperament 
absolutely  crazy.  So  matters  advanced,  or  rather,  I  should 
say,*so  time  advanced,  while  affairs  did  not.  It  was  at 
this  period,"  said  my  friend,  "  that  Dervilly  gave  me  his 
confidence.  Our  intimacy  had  gradually  increased  from 
the  hour  of  your  leaving  us,  and  at  length  he  unbosomed 
himself  completely.  My  first  impression,  after  hearing 
his  story,  was  that  the  pretty  mademoiselle  was  no  more 
nor  less  than  an  arrant  flirt ;  that  her  charms  were 
magnified  to  a  lover's  vision ;  and  that  the  mystery  which 
attended  her  would  turn. out  to  be  no  mystery  at  all. 
So  I  treated  the  case  lightly,  laughed  at  his  description, 
called  Mademoiselle  Emilie  a  coquette,  and  added,  a 
little  seriously,  that  it  was  a  shame  for  her  to  trifle  with 
so  warm-hearted  a  fellow.  You  know  how  grating  are 
the  disparaging  remarks  of  a  friend  about  one  in  whom 
we  confess  to  ourselves  a  deeper  interest  than  we  care 
to  acknowledge  to  the  unsympathizing.  What  I  had  said 
was  kindly  intended,  but  it  touched  Dervilly  to  the  quick. 
" '  1  did  not  think  you  capable,'  he  exclaimed,  '  of 
thus  making  light  of  my  confidence — I  find  I  was 
deceived.  You  are  at  liberty  to  make  as  much  sport 
of  me  as  you  will.  I  have  learned  a  lesson  which  I  will 
take  care  to  remember.' 


184      ROMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

" '  You  must  not  speak  so,'  I  said ;  '  I  really  was 
not  serious.  I  take  back  every  word.  I  would  not 
wound  you  for  the  world.  Forgive  me.'  Then  we 
shook  hands,  and  Dcrvilly  assured  me  I  had  misjudged 
his  Emilie ;  he  would  ask  her  permission  to  intro- 
duce me,  and  I  should  see  for  myself.  The  permis- 
sion was  never  accorded,  although  Dervilly  urged  to 
Mademoiselle  de  Coigny  that  I  was  his  best  and  almost 
only  friend.  She  was  unyielding ;  she  would  not  see  me. 
Meanwhile  his  passion  increased  with  every  impediment 
— yet  he  gained  no  assurance  of  its  being  returned,  save 
what  his  heart  whispered  to  him. 

"In  the  Jardin  des  Plants  they  were  accustomed 
to  meet  daily,  when  the  weather  was  propitious — so 
much  Emilie  yielded  to  her  lover — and  spend  an 
hour  together ;  and  if  they  could  not  meet  in  the 
open  air,  they  repaired  to  the  house  where  they  first 
became  acquainted.  On  one  occasion  Dervilly,  unable 
to  bear  suspense  any  longer,  seized  her  hand,  and  pas- 
sionately pledged  himself,  his  existence,  his  soul,  his  all, 
to  Emilie  de  Coigny ;  he  swore  his  fate  was  indissolu- 
bly  linked  with  hers,  that  their  destiny  could  not  be 
severed,  and  he  demanded  from  her  an  avowal  of  the 
truth  of  what  he  said.  The  violence  of  Dervilly  alarmed 
her ;  she  drew  her  hand  from  his,  and  looking  him  steadily 
in  the  face,  inquired : 


THE   FAIR  MYSTERY.  185 

"  '  What  has  prompted  Monsieur  to  this  sudden  show 
of  feeling  ?' 

"'Do  you  ask  what?'  exclaimed  Dervilly:  'it  is 
you.  Are  you  not  answered  ?  How  can  I  resist  what 
is  inevitable?  how  curb  myself  when  all  hold  is  lost? 
Dieu  merci !  be  not  so  deadly  calm — it  means  the  worst 
for  me — be  angry,  vexed,  any  thing,  but  look  not  on  me 
with  that  glazed  look — it  maddens  me.' 

"  '  Monsieur  Dervilly,'  said  Emilie,  without  change  of 
tone  or  manner,  '  what  you  have  said,  if  it  means  any 
thing,  means  every  thing  ;  it  means  all  a  maiden  longs  to 
hear  from  lips  that  are  beloved.  To  respond,  I  must 
be  assured  how  far  your  judgment  will  confirm  what  now 
seems  to  be  a  mere  passionate  ebullition.  Excuse  me,' 
she  continued,  as  Dervilly  made  an  impatient  gesture; 
'I  have  heard  and  read  of  similar  protestations  which 
had  little  true  significance.' 

"  '  I  accept  any  conditions,'  interrupted  the  young 
man,  'and  will  bless  you  from  the  depths  of  my  sou] 
for  naming  any,  even  the  hardest ;  yes,  the  hardest — 
I  care  not  what,  so  that  they  are  from  you.' 

"  The  girl  regarded  Dervilly  as  if  she  would  search  hig 
very  nature.  '  You  are  silent — speak ;  I  can  no  longer 
contain  myself,'  exclaimed  he,  wildly. 

"  '  Monsieur,'  once  more  observed  Mademoiselle  de 
Coigny,  'you  know  not  to  whom  you  address  yourself; 


186      ROMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

should  I  tell  you,  you  would  retract  all  those  strong 
words,  and  hasten  to  escape  in  the  least  humiliating  way 
possible.' 

"  '  Never.  Heaven  is  my  witness,  never.  I  care  not 
who  you  are;  I  will  never  seek  to  know;  when  you 
choose,  you  shall  inform  me.  You  need  never  tell  me. 
I  say,  I  care  not,  so  that  you  are  mine.' 

"  '  And  you  will  be  mine  for  ever  ?'  said  the  girl 
slowly. 

"  '  For  ever.' 

"  '  I  am  yours — yours,'  and  Emilie  de  Coigny  sunk 
into  the  arms  of  her  lover. 

"  In  one  instant  the  fortunes  of  Dervilly  were  changed : 
— from  despair  he  was  raised  to  a  condition  of  Delicious 
joy.  His  raptures  were  so  unnatural,  that  I  cautioned 
him.  against  such  violent  indulgence  of  them.  But  he  was 
too  excited  to  listen  to  me.  Indeed,  I  feared  that  he 
would  lose  his  reason.  It  seemed  as  if  more  than  ordi- 
nary passion  had  possession  of  him,  and  that  it  was 
inspired-  by  something  unearthly  ;  and,  without  ever 
having  seen  the  girl,  I  began  to  attribute  to  her  a  super- 
natural influence.  Besides,  Dervilly  confessed  he  knew 
as  little  of  his  affianced  as  before,  and  that  occasionally 
the  same  icy  look  would  be  turned  on  him,  as  it  were 
quite  inadvertently,  and  hold  him  spellbound  with  horror, 
while  it  still  served  to  increase  his  frenzy  beyond  all 


THE   FAIR  MYSTERY.  187 

bounds.  Then,  her  endearing  smiles,  her  truthful  and  con- 
fiding love,  her  absolute  reliance,  her  entire  dependence, 
on  Dervilly,  made  him  so  frantic  with  happiness,  that  he 
lost  all  capacity  to  reason. 

"The  season  passed  away,  but  Dervilly  had  learned 
nothing  more  of  the  history  of  his  betrothed ;  she  still 
avoided  the  subject,  and,  when  he  alluded  to  it,  she  would 
beg  him  to  desist,  and  hide  her  face  in  his  bosom  and 
weep. 

"  Strange  thoughts  at  last  found  their  way  into  his 
brain,  fearful  surmises  began  to  disturb  his  peace,  and, 
when  absent  from  Emilie,  he  would  resolve  at  their 
next  interview,  to  insist  on  knowing  all.  But  when  the 
time  came,  and  he  met,  turned  on  him,  the  open  and 
innocent  look  of  the  maiden's  clear  eyes,  which  ex- 
pressed so  earnestly  how  entirely  her  soul  rested  on 
his,  all  courage  failed  him,  and  he  could  not  go  on.  .  . 


"One  evening,"  continued  Partridge,  after  a  pause, 
and  with  the  tone  of  a  person  approaching  an  un- 
pleasant subject,  "  one  evening,  after  dinner — I  think 
it  was  the  last  week  in  May — I  recollect  the  day  had 
been  quite  warm — I  strolled  into  the  large  garden  which 
you  remember  belonged  to  our  old  lodgings  in  the  rue 


188     BOMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

Copeau,  and  after  a  while  sat  down  in  the  summer- 
house.  Presently  little  Sophie  Lecomte  came  running 
out  to  me,  and  I  remained  amusing  myself  with  the 
child's  prattle  till  it  was  dark.  The  moon  shone  brightly, 
and  I  did  not  perceive  how  late  it  was,  until  reminded 
of  the  hour  by  finding  that  Sophie  was  fast  asleep  in 
my  lap.  I  rose  and  carried  her  into  the  house,  and 
went  quietly  to  my  room.  I  seated  myself  near  the  window 
without  lighting  the  candles,  feeling  that  the  glare  would 
not  then  harmonize  with  my  feelings.  The  truth  is,  I 
was  thinking  of  you,  and  of  that  romantic  passage  across 
the  Apennines,  and  of  the  fair  stranger,  and  so  forth.  I 
sat  by  the  window,  the  moonlight  streaming  across  the 
room,  over  the  top  of  the  old  chapel,  the  windows  and 
doors  open,  and  every  tiling  still,  except  the  monotonous 
chirping  of  a  single  cricket,  louder  than  that  of  any  French 
cricket  I  ever  heard  before,  and  which  sung  the  very 
same  song  I  used  to  hear  when  a  boy,  from  under  the 
large  kitchen  hearthstone  at  home. 

'  I  began  to  feel  a  little  lonely,  and  so  started  up, 
and  stamped  with  my  feet  in  order  to  silence  the 
solitary  insect,  or  arouse  the  rest  of  the  family;  but 
the  old  one  only  sung  the  harder,  and  the  others 
would  not  wake,  and  I  sat  down  again,  and  half-closed 
my  eyes  in  order  to  lose  myself,  if  I  could,  in 
some  pleasant  revery.  My  eyes  were  half  closed,  the 


THE   FAIR  MYSTERY.  189 

perfume  from  the  graperies  filled  the  room,  and  had  a 
pleasant  effect  upon  my  senses,  and  thus  I  began  to  forget 
where  I  was  and  what  was  about  me.  Presently  I  heard 
a  rapid,  unsteady  step  along  the  corridor;  it  grew  more 
rapid  and  more  unsteady ;  I  raised  my  head,  and  at  that 
instant  Dervilly  hurried  into  the  room. 

'"I  knew  it — I  knew  it,'  he  exclaimed,  wildly;  'one 
of  the  sirens  sent  from  hell !  I  have  sold  myself,  body 
and  soul ! — I  am  lost — lost.  Ah !  I  knew  it — I  knew  it.' 

"  Shocked  and  surprised  as  I  was  by  such  an  extraordi- 
nary scene,  I  did  not  forget  that  Dervilly  was  of  a  most 
nervous  and  excitable  temperament.  I  rose,  took  hold 
of  him  kindly,  and  asked  him  what  had  happened.  As  I 
placed  my  hand  on  his  head,  I  perceived  that  the  veins 
were  distended,  and  that  the  carotid  and  temporal  arteries 
were  throbbing  violently.  I  hastened  to  strike  a  light, 
while  he  continued  to  repeat  nearly  the  words  I  have  just 
mentioned  in  a  wild  and  incoherent  manner.  I  could 
now  see  his  countenance,  and  it  seemed  as  if  the  destroyer 
had  been  ravaging  it.  His  cap  was  gone.  His  hair, 
which  was  usually  so  neatly  arranged,  was  tossed  over 
his  face  in  twisted  locks ;  his  eyes  were  fixed,  and  blood- 
shot,  and  sparkling. 

"  '  My  dear  friend,  you  are  ill — you  are  excited — let 
me  bring  you  to  your  bed ;'  (we  occupied  the  large  room 
in  common,  with  a  small  bedroom  for  each,  leading  from 


190  ROMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

it ;)  with  this  I  took  his  arm,  and  gently  urged  him  to  his 
apartment. 

"  '  Not  there,  not  there  !'  he  cried,  vehemently  ; 
"have  I  not  lain  there,  night  after  night,  thinking  of 
her1? — have  I  not  dreamed  there  happy  dreams,  and 
seen  dear  delightful  visions  7  Not  there — never — never 
again !' 

" '  You  shall  not,'  I  said,  endeavouring  to  humour 
him ;  '  you  shall  lie  in  my  bed,  and  I  will  watch  by  you 
till  you  are  better.' 

"The  young  man  burst  into  tears.  This  action  evi- 
dently relieved  him,  and  made  him  more  rational,  for 
he  took'  my  arm  and  I  assisted  him  to  bed,  and  tried  to 
soothe  him ;  but  he  soon  relapsed  into  an  excited  fever. 
Shortly  after,  he  called  me  to  him,  and,  throwing  his  arms 
closely  around  me,  exclaimed,  '  Partridge,  we  were  born 
in  the  same  land ;  I  implore  you,  by  that  one  common 
tie,  not  to  leave  me  an  instant ;  I  am  a  doomed  wretch ; 
but  save  me,  save  me  from  the  fiend,  as  long  as  it  is 
possible.' 

"  I  now  became  very  much  alarmed.  My  first  im- 
pulse was  to  administer  an  opiate ;  but  the  case  seemed 
so  critical  that  I  determined  to  send  at  once  for  Louis, 
whose  sympathy  for  the  students,  you  know,  is  uni- 
versal. I  called  to  young  Stabb,  who  occupied  the 
next  room,  and  he  set  off  immediately.  After  a  few 


THE   FAIR   MYSTERY.  191 

minutes  Dervilly  dozed  a  little ;  and  then  he  started 
up,  and  gazed  around,  as  if  attempting  to  discern  some 
object. 

"  '  Do  you  wish  for  any  thing  V  I  said,  lie  took  no 
notice  of  my  question,  but  continued  to  glance  piercingly 
in  every  direction. 

"  '  What  do  you  see  7'  I  asked. 

"  '  La  Morgue  /'  he  exclaimed,  with  a  sh  wider,  and 
pointing  into  the  other  room — '  la  Morgue  /' 

"  He  continued  to  gaze  madly  in  the  same  way,  still 
holding  his  arm  outstretched,  while  his  whole  frame 
seemed  convulsed  with  terror ;  but  I  could  gain  no  clue 
to  the  catastrophe  which  had  fallen  so  terribly  on  the  ill- 
fated  sufferer. 

"  It  seemed  to  me  an  age — it  really  was  but  an  hour — 
before  Stabb  returned.  He  was  accompanied  by  Louis. 
You  know  his  skill  as  a  physician,  and  especially  in  the 
treatment  of  fevers,  is  world-renowned.  I  had  '  followed' 
him  during  the  whole  of  your  absence ;  had  become,  as  a 
matter  of  course,  one  of  his  warmest  admirers ;  and  was 
fortunate  enough  to  secure  his  friendship.  He  also  knew 
Dervilly.  Hearing  them  enter,  I  stepped  into  the  princi- 
pal room  to  meet  him. 

"  '  Mon  Dieu !  Monsieur  Partridge,  quel  est  le  mal  P 
said  Louis,  with  great  feeling.  '  Monsieur  Dervilly  was 
at  the  Hospital  in  the  morning,  and  I  met  him  as  late 


192     KOMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

as  six  o'clock  this  afternoon,  passing  into  the  Jardin  des 
Plants: 

"  '  God  only  knows,'  I  replied.  '  Something  horrible 
has  suddenly  befallen  him.'  And  I  gave  an  account 
of  what  had  occurred  since  Dervilly  came  to  his  rooms. 

"  Louis  was  silent  for  a  moment,  and  then  began  to 
question  me  very  minutely  about  him,  while  Stabb  went  in 
to  keep  watch  over  the  poor  fellow. — Among  other  things, 
I  mentioned  his  love  affair;  and,  believing  it  to  be  my 
duty  to  do  so,  I  told  Louis,  briefly,  all  Dervilly  had 
confided  to  me.  He  listened  with  great  attention,  and 
after  I  had  concluded,  we  passed  into  the  little  chamber 
where  Dervilly  lay. 

"  He  started  up  with  violence  as  we  came  in,  as  if  a 
severe  paroxysm  were  about  to  follow.  He  stared 
wildly  on  seeing  Louis,  and,  seizing  his  hand,  he  ex- 
claimed, 'Ah,  mon  Professeur,  you  are  a  very  great 
man,  and  you  are  very  kind  to  come  to  me,  but  your 
knowledge  avails  nothing  here,'  touching  his  forehead. 
Suddenly  he  extended  his  finger,  and  cried  again,  '  La 
Morgue — la,  Morgue? 

"  '  What  see  you  in  la  Morgue?  said  Louis,  tenderly. 

"  '  See  ?    Her,  her  /'  screamed  Dervilly. 

"  '  Who,  mon  enfant  ?  said  the  Professor,  very  gently. 

"  '  Who,  but  the  fiend — the  fiend  !  She  has  my  soul — 
lost,  lost  for  ever.' 


THE   FAIR   MYSTERY.  193 

"  '  You  should  not  speak  so  harshly  of  Mademoiselle 
de  Coigny,'  continued  Louis,  in  a  soothing  tone. 

" '  Pronounce  not  that  name :  a  bait,  a  trap,  a  wile  of 
Satan ;  repeat  it,  and  I  will  tear  you  piecemeal !'  cried  the 
maniac. 

"'But,  mon  pauvre  enfant,  what  does  she  at  la 
Morgue  V 

"'She?  the  fiend — the  fiend — sits  perched  on  the  top 
of  the  wooden  rail  all  night,  watching — watching — and 
when  some  of  the  corpses  show  signs  of  life,  sails  down, 
and  sits  upon,  and  strangles  them.  Keep  me  away  from 
there.  Ah,  mon  Professeur,  do  not  let  me  go  there,  to  lie 
on  the  board,  and  have  her  bending  over  me,  eyeing  me, 
watching  me,  ready  to  strangle  me.  There  again !  keep 
those  glazed  eyes  away — keep  them  away,  I  say.' 

"  All  this  time  Louis  was  making  a  minute  examination 
of  Dervilly's  symptoms. 

"The  latter  presently  seemed  aware  of  what  he  was 
doing,  for  he  exclaimed,  'The  usual  symptoms,  eh,  mon 
Professeur  ?  strongly  marked,  n'est  ce  pas  ?  Act  prompt- 
ly and  decisively,  as  you  say  sometimes.  Let  blood — let 
bk>od — appliquez  des  sangsues — ha,  ha,  ha !  that's  what  we 
call  bleeding,  both  general  and  local,  ha,  ha,  ha  !  then  come 
on  with  your  cold  applications :  ice,  ice,  a  mountain  of  ice 
piled  round  about  the  head !  follow  up  with  cathartics, 
refrigerant  diaphoretics ;  after,  depleting  blister  ! — say  you 


194      ROMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

not  so  1 — blisters  to  the  nape  of  the  neck — blisters  behind 
the  ears — shave  the  scalp — I  forgot  that — shave  the  scalp 
— strange  I  had  not  thought  of  it, — and  the  hair,  mon 
Professeur,  I  know  you  will  think  me  very  foolish,  but — 
— save  the  hair — I  sha'n't  have  another  growth — save  the 
hair.  Where  was  II — ah,  the  blisters — that  will  pretty 
nearly  do  for  me — keep  every  thing  quiet,  very  quiet — 
after  a  while,  digitalis  and  nitre — digitalis  and  nitre,  mon 
Professeur — have  I  not  said  my  lesson  well  V 

"  Louis  stood  perfectly  still,  regarding  the  poor  fellow 
with  a  mournful  interest.  As  Dervilly  paused,  he  took 
off  his  spectacles  and  wiped  his  eyes.  '  Ah,  Monsieur 
Louis,  you  talk  very  eloquently  about  medical  science,  but 
I  baffle  you;  I  am  sure  of  it.  Call  the  class  together — 
Ah,  Notre  Dame  de  Pitie — call  the  class  together ;  voila 
la  clinique.  Thus  being  thus,  it  must  necessarily  be  thus. 
That's  a  wise  saying,  mon  Professeur.  Call  the  class 
together ;  propound  why  of  necessity  you  can  do  nothing  ? 
because  of  a  necessity  nothing  can  be  done.  Call  the  class 
together ;  be  active — vigorously  antiphlogistic ;  time  is 
precious — the  patient  in  danger.  Purgatives — I  doubt 
as  to  purgatives.  What  think  you1?'  And  Dervilly 
paused,  and  cast  on  Louis  a  look  so  naturally  inquiring, 
that  the  latter  replied,  as  it  were,  involuntarily,  '  Moi  aussi 
je  doute? 

"And  it  was  so;   with  all  his  genius,  all  his  knowl- 


THE   FAIR   MYSTERY.  195 

edge,  all  his  experience,  and  all  his  skill,  the  great 
practitioner  stood,  while  minute  after  minute  was  lost, 
apparently  hesitating  what  to  do.  At  last  he  called  me 
into  the  other  room.  '  Is  it  not  possible  to  find  Mademoi- 
selle de  Coigny  V  he  inquired. 

" '  I  have  no  means  of  knowing  where  to  seek  her,'  I 
replied.  At  the  same  time  I  remembered  she  was  in  the 
habit  of  visiting  the  house  in  which  Dervilly  first  met  her, 
and  fortunately  knew  the  street  and  number. 

" '  Let  her  be  sent  for  instantly,'  said  Louis.  '  Do  not 
go  yourself;  you  may  be  of  service  here.'  Accordingly 
I  gave  Stabb  the  direction,  and  instructed  him  to  procure 
Mademoiselle  de  Coigny's  address,  if  possible ;  but  if  he 
were  unsuccessful  in  this,  to  communicate  the  fact  of 
Dervilly's  alarming  illness,  and  beg  that  Mademoiselle 
might  be  immediately  summoned. 

"  We  returned  to  the  sick  room,  and  Louis,  seating  himself 
in  a  chair,  remained  lost  in  thought  for  nearly  a  quarter  of 
an  hour,  while  I  did  what  I  could  to  pacify  the  sufferer.  I 
could  not  help  wondering  that  a  man,  so  prompt  and  so 
efficient,  should  lose  a  moment  when  the  least  delay  was 
to  be  avoided ;  and  as  I  was  reflecting  on  this,  Louis 
rose  so  suddenly  from  his  seat  that  I  was  startled. 

"  '  There  is  but  one  course,  and  the  poor  boy  has  very 
accurately  defined  it.  Let  his  head  be  shaved,  and  pillowed 
in  ice  ;  bleed  him  at  once — if  he  faints,  all  the  better.' 


196      ROMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

"  '  No  danger  of  that,'  shouted  Dervilly.  '  No  syncope 
with  me  but  the  last  syncope — no  syncope — ha,  ha,  ha! 
double  the  ounces — you  are  timid — no  syncope,  I  say — 
no  syncope.' 

"  He  continued  the  whole  time  raving,  much  in  the 
manner  I  have  described.  The  room  was  kept  quite 
dark,  and  no  one  was  permitted  to  come  in.  Louis  did 
not  leave  the  bedside  the  entire  night.  Dervilly  never 
slept  for  an  instant. 

"  On  one  occasion  he  started  suddenly  and  threw  him- 
self close  on  one  side,  and  screamed,  '  Take  her  away — 
take  her  away  !' 

"'What  is  it?' I  asked. 

" '  Do  you  not  see  her  ?'  he  shrieked,  '  sitting  on  the 
side  of  the  bed,  looking  into  my  eyes ;  take  her  away, 
take  her  away *' 

"  I  need  not  detail  to  you,"  continued  Partridge,  "  the 
whole  of  these  fearful  scenes.  Late  in  the  evening  Stabb 
returned  ;  he  had  found  the  house  ;  and  although  he  could 
not  obtain  Mademoiselle  de  Coigny's  address,  he  was 
promised  that  his  message  should  be  communicated  early 
in  the  morning. 

"  '  It  will  be  too  late,'  said  Louis,  mournfully. 

"  What  a  long  night  it  was !  The  morning  dawned  at 
last,  but  it  brought  no  change  to  poor  Dervilly.  I  had 
sent  for  his  nearest  relative,  who  lived  over  on  the  Boule- 


THE   FAIR   MYSTERY.  197 

vard  Poissonniere,  and  was  awaiting  his  arrival  with  con- 
siderable anxiety. 

"It  was  not  later  than  nine.  Stabb,  the  good  fellow, 
had  relieved  me  from  my  watch,  and  I  was  in  the 
sitting-room,  in  my  large  arm-chair,  still  anxious  and 
fearful,  when  there  came  a  slight  tap  at  the  door;  it 
opened,  and  Emilie  de  Coigny  stood  before  me.  Ah, 
how  beautiful  she  was,  yet  how  terrified !  It  was  not 
terror  of  excitement — mere  surface  passion — but  from  the 
depths  of  her  soul.  She  was  stirred  by  intense  emotion. 
'  Tell  me,'  she  said,  coming  earnestly  up  to  me,  '  tell  me 
where  he  is,  and  what  has  happened  to  him !'  I  put  my 
finger  on  my  lips  to  prevent  her  from  saying  more,  and  led 
her  to  the  further  corner  of  the  room  ;  but  she  would  not 
sit  down  ;  she  begged  to  be  told  every  thing  at  once  ;  and 
I,  in  a  low  voice,  gave  Mademoiselle  de  Coigny  a  minute 
account  of  all  I  had  witnessed.  When  I  came  to  Dervilly's 
exclamation,  '•La,  Morgue — la  Morgm]  the  young  girl 
became  suddenly  very  pale,  her  fortitude  forsook  her,  and 
she  murmured  faintly,  'He  saw  me  go  in — he  saw  me 
go  in.' 

"  I  must  admit  I  was,  for  the  moment,  not  a  little  trem- 
ulous. I  recollected  stories  of  devils  taking  possession 
of  the  dead  bodies  of  virgins,  hi  order  to  lure  young  men 
to  perdition.  I  thought  of  the  tale  of  the  German  student, 
who,  on  retiring  with  his  bride,  beheld  her  head  roll  from 


200  KOMANCE   OF  STUDENT   LIFE. 

swered  the  summons  at  once,  and  in  the  most  gentle 
manner  endeavoured  to  persuade  Mademoiselle  de  Coigny 
to  go  with  her.  It  was  in  vain.  She  would  not  leave  the 
room.  Occasionally,  through  the  day,  she  would  step  to 
Dervilly's  bedside,  and  in  the  softest,  sweetest,  gentlest 
tone  I  ever  heard,  say,  'Alfred.'  The  effect  was  always 
the  same  as  at  first,  exciting  the  poor  fellow  to  still  deeper 
paroxysms  and  more  violent  exclamations. 

"  On  the  fourth  day  he  died ;  the  symptoms  becoming 
more  and  more  aggravating,  until  coma  supervened 
to  delirium.  During  the  whole  period  of  his  sickness 
Mademoiselle  de  Coigny  never  left  the  house — scarcely 
the  room — Madame  Lecomte  on  two  or  three  occa- 
sions almost  forcing  the  wretched  girl  away  to  her  own 
apartments.  When  poor  Dervilly  sunk  into  that  deep 
lethargic  slumber,  so  much  dreaded  by  the  physician, 
because  so  fatal,  she  came  almost  joyfully  into  his  cham- 
ber, and  threw  her  arms  tenderly  around  him : 

" '  He  sleeps  at  last,'  she  said  ;  '  is  it  not  well  ?' 

"  I  would  have  given  the  world  for  the  freedom  of  burst- 
ing into  tears,  so  deeply  was  I  affected  by  that  hopeful, 
trustful  question.  What  could  I  do,  but  shake  my  head 
mournfully  and  hasten  out  of  the  place  ? 

"  He  died,  and  made  no  sign ;  not  a  word,  not  a  look, 
not  the  slightest  pressure  of  the  hand,  for  the  one  he 
loved  so  tenderly,  and  who  watched  so  anxiously  for 


THE   FAIR   MYSTERY.  201 

some  slight  token.  'Oh,'  I  exclaimed  to  myself,  as  the 
hardness  of  such  a  fate  was  impressed  on  me,  'God  is 
just ;  there  is  an  hereafter ;  these  two  must  meet  again. 

"  Emilie  de  Coigny  left  the  room  where  her  dead 
lover  lay,  only  when  he  himself  was  borne  to  his  last 
resting-place.  She  followed  him  to  the  spot  where  he 
was  buried  in  Pere  la  Chaise,  and  remained  standing  by  it 
after  every  one  else  had  come  away.  In  this  position  she 
was  found — standing  over  the  grave — late  at  night  by  her 
friends — some  members  of  the  family  I  have  mentioned — 
who  sought  her  out.  She  left  that  splendid  city  of  the 
dead  bereft  of  reason,  and  so  she  has  ever  since  continued. 
When  the  day  is  fine,  she  invariably  keeps  her  fancied 
engagement  with  her  lover  at  the  appointed  place  in  the 
Jardin  des  Plants  ;  she  patiently  sits  the  hour,  and  retires 
sadly,  as  you  saw  her.  When  the  weather  is  forbidding, 
she  goes  to  her  friend's  house  and  waits  the  same  period, 
never  showing  the  least  symptom  of  impatience,  but,  on 
the  contrary,  evincing  the  signs  of  a  bruised  but  most 
gentle  spirit." 

Here  Partridge  paused,  as  if  at  the  end  of  his  story. 

"Is  that  all?"    said  I. 

"That  is   all,"  he  responded. 

"  Surely  not,"   I   continued ;  "  you   have   said   nothing 

about   the  strange  mystery  which  killed  our  poor  friend, 

9* 


202  ROMANCE   OF   STUDENT   LIFE. 

and  which,  as  it  seems  to  me,  is  the  main  point  in  the 
story." 

"  True  enough — it  is  singular  I  should  have  left  it  out, 
but  it  is  explained  in  a  word.  These  same  friends  of 
Mademoiselle  de  Coigny  gave  me  the  information. 

"It  appears  that  on  one  inclement  night,  as  the  keeper 
of  the  Morgue  was  returning  from  an  official  visit  to  the 
Chief  of  Police,  toward  his  own  quarters,  which  are  adjoin- 
ing and  over  the  dead  room,  he  stumbled  over  something 
which  a  flash  of  lightning  at  the  instant  showed  to  be  the 
body  of  a  man.  He  was  quite  dead,  but,  nestled  down 
close  by  his  side,  with  one  of  her  little  hands  on  his  face, 
was  a  child,  about  two  years  of  age.  Jean  Maurice  Sorel, 
although  long  inured  to  repulsive  sights,  had  not  grown  cal- 
lous to  misery.  By  birth  he  was  considerably  above  his 
somewhat  ignominious  office ;  he  had  narrowly  escaped 
with  his  life  when  Louis  XVI.  was  brought  to  the  scaffold, 
for  some  indiscreet  expressions  that  savoured  too  much  of 
royalty ;  yet  in  the  tumults  which  succeeded,  he  had,  he 
scarcely  knew  how,  through  some  influence  with  the  chief 
of  one  of  the  departments,  been  appointed  to  this  repulsive 
duty.  But,  as  I  have  said,  his  heart  was  just  as  kind  as 
ever,  after  many  years  discharge  of  it ;  and  Jean  Maurice 
Sorel,  instead  of  repining  at  his  lot,  blessed  God  daily  that 
he  had  the  means  of  supporting  a  wife  and  children,  while 
so  many  of  his  old  friends  had  literally  starved  to  death. 


THE  FAIR,  MYSTERY.  203 

Such  was  the  person  who  stumbled  over  the  body  of  the 
dead  man,  and  discovered  the  living  child  beside  it.  He 
called  at  once  for  assistance,  and  had  the  corpse  conveyed 
to  his  house,  while  he  carried  the  little  girl  in  his  arms. 
She  was  too  young  to  give  any  information  about  herself, 
but,  on  searching  the  pockets  of  the  deceased,  several  pa- 
pers were  found  which  disclosed  enough  to  satisfy  Jean 
Maurice  Sorel  that  in  the  wasted,  attenuated  form  before 
him,  he  beheld  his  once  friend  and  benefactor  the  Mar- 
quis de  Coigny,  who,  he  supposed,  had  perished  by  the 
guillotine  in  the  revolution.  The  papers  permitted  no 
doubt  of  the  fact  that  the  little  girl  was  his  grand-daugh- 
ter and  only  descendant,  and  she  was  commended  to  the 
care  of  the  kind  hearted  when  death  should  overtake 
him. 

"The  old  Marquis  was  buried,  and  the  little  Emilie 
adopted  into  the  family  of  the  good  Jean  Maurice.  Her 
education  was  conducted  in  a  manner  far  superior  to  that 
of  his  own  children,  and  the  choicest  garments  of  those 
which  fell  to  him  were  selected  to  be  made  over  for  her. 
Perhaps  unwisely,  her  history  was  explained  to  her,  so  that 
she  lived  all  her  life  with  the  sense  that  she  belonged  in  a 
different  sphere ;  not  that  she  was  ungrateful  or  un amiable 
— quite  the  contrary — she  was  sweet-tempered,  affectionate, 
and  gentle,  and  loved  by  Jean  Maurice  and  all  his  family 
with  a  devoted  fondness :  but  the  world  had  charms  for  her 


ROMANCE  OP  STUDENT  LIFE. 

which  the  world  withheld ;  she  felt  that  she  never  could 
become  an  object  of  love  where  she  could  love  in  return, 
and  so  she  repined  at  her  destiny. 

"By  accident  she  made  the  acquaintance  of  the  fam- 

tf 

ily  where  Dervilly  first  met  her.  They  had  known 
her  father  and  her  grandfather,  and  she  loved  them  for 
that.  She  resisted  for  a  long  time  the  feeling  for  her 
lover  which  she  perceived  was  taking  strong  hold  of 
her,  and,  when  she  could  resist  no  longer,  she  yet  de- 
layed to  tell  him  what  a  home  she  inhabited.  This 
was  her  pride — her  weakness — and  how  terribly  did  she 
pay  the  penalty!  Day  after  day,  (so  I  was  told,)  she 
resolved  to  explain  all,  but  she  procrastinated,  till  her 
lover,  no  longer  able  to  restrain  his  anxiety,  and  full  of 
excitements  and  fears  and  perturbations,  followed  her  at 
some  little  distance,  just  at  twilight,  and  saw,  or  fancied 
he  saw,  her  enter  the  Morgue.  It  was  too  much  for  his 
nervous  temperament.  His  brain  caught  fire — he  came 
home  raving  with  delirium — and  DIED!  Now  you  have 
the  whole." 


CHANGES.  205 


CHAPTER  IX. 

C  H  A  K  O  E  8  . 

WHEN  I  came  back  to  Paris, — I  alluded  in  the  last 
chapter  to  my  absence  and  return, — I  found  most  of  our 
old  company  still  there,  but  occupying  other  quarters.  In 
justice  to  our  friend,  Monsieur  Battz,  and  his  interesting 
daughters,  1  should  say  that  it  was  through  no  fault  or 
inattention  of  theirs,  but  from  the  mere  desire  of  change, 
that  our  clique  one  day  made  their  exodus  from  the  rue 
Copeau,  and  took  possession  of  a  habitation  in  an  adjoining 
street. 

To  be  sure,  there  were  some  advantages  in  the  new 
location.  The  house — it  was  a  very  large  one — had  been 
unoccupied  for  nearly  two  years :  it  had  the  reputation  of 
being  haunted,  as  a  matter  of  course.  The  young  fellow 
who  kept  the  billiard-room,  where  some  of  our  party  used 
to  congregate,  had  married,  and  at  a  venture  rented  the 
old  cobweb-covered  mansion.  By  the  change  we  lost  the 
cockney,  and  two  or  three  others  ;  a  few  also  of  our  com- 
panions had  left  Paris,  and  their  places  had  been  supplied 
by  others.  By  the  time  I  got  back  every  thing  was 


206      ROMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

settled,  except  the  ghosts :  according  to  the  Italian,  who 
occupied  with  his  friend  a  remote  part  of  the  building, 
and  who  delighted  always  in  the  marvellous,  there  were 
strange  doings  every  night,  immediately  after  twelve 
o'clock,  in  the  long  corridor  which  ran  by  his  room.  No 
one  could  tell  whether  the  Italian  was  serious  or  jesting ; 
he  was  the  first  to  pass  a  night  in  the  house,  and  claimed 
to  have  more  authentic  information  than  the  rest  about 
this  very  delicate  subject. 

For  myself,  I  recommenced  my  walks,  and  became 
again  very  regular  in  my  pursuits,  so  that  even  Partridge 
was  fain  to  commend  me.  Next  to  him,  none  were  so  well 
pleased  to  welcome  me  as  Clements ;  he  had  a  great 
deal  to  tell  me,  and  our  intimacy  became  stronger  than 
ever.  One  evening  several  of  us  happened  to  meet  in 
the  Italian's  room:  the  latter  appeared  for  a  time  in 
much  better  spirits  than  usual,  and  amused  us  with 
many  laughable  reminiscences  of  his  life,  and  what  he 
had  seen  in  different  countries. 

"What  has  put  you  in  such  good  humour  to-night, 
Signor  Italiano  ?"  asked  one. 

"Nothing  but  a  good  dinner  and  a  good  digestion," 
answered  another.  "  It  always  affects  the  Signor  wonder- 
fully." 

"  Eight,  quite  right,"  said  the  Italian ;  "  we  have  a 
proverb  which  I  have  seen  also  in  the  English  :  'An  over- 


A  MELANCHOLY  JACQUES.  207 

loaded  stomach  talks  this  planet  into  hell — a  glass  of 
wine  can  deify  its  devils.' " 

"  Ah,  now  we  understand  the  ghost  stories,"  said 
Clements. 

"  Messieurs"  said  the  Italian,  "  you  get  no  ghost  story 
out  of  me.  You  are  a  set  of  unbelievers ;  I  shall  not 
give  you  a  fresh  opportunity  to  scoff." 

"Come,  Clements,  let  us  be  off;  we  shall  make  nothing 
here  to-night." 

"  Stop  a  moment,"  said  Vincent,  who  had  just  come  in, 
"  I  have  a  letter  from  Howard,  from  whom  we  have  not 
heard  for  an  age.  He  is  our  melancholy  Jacques,  you 
know  ;  that  is,  on  occasions  when  Howard  affects  the  char- 
acter, because  he  thinks  he  writes  well,  and  that  it  makes 
him  in-ter-est-ing.  Here  is  the  letter,  written 

'Under  the  shade  of  melancholy  boughs 

It  gives  a  pithy  account  of  the  New  York  atmosphere. 
What  a  fool  he  is  for  a  fellow  of  sense !  Hear  him :" 
and  Vincent  read  from  the  letter: 

"  '  You  have  no  idea,  my  friend,  of  the  insensate  follies 
of  a  New  York  "  season."  The  people  are  wild  without 
being  gay,  and  excited  without  being  animated.  They  are 
extravagant  without  taste,  and  profuse  without  generosity. 
Imagine  every  thing  that  is  unnatural,  and  you  shall  not 
fail  to  get  an  idea  of  "society"  in  my  native  city.'" 


208      ROMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

"  The  fellow  is  in  love  with  some  pretty  New  Yorker," 
said  Partridge. 

"  Don't  interrupt,"  cried  Vincent ;  "  listen  to  what's 
coming.  It's  poetry,  by  Jupiter  Ammon : 

' "  There  they  are  happiest,  who  dissemble  best 
Their  weariness  ;  and  they  the  most  polite, 
Who  squander  time  and  treasure  with  a  smile, 
Though  at  their  own  destruction.    She  that  asks 
Her  dear  five  hundred  friends,  contemns  them  all, 
And  hates  their  coming.    They  (what  can  they  less  ?) 
Make  just  reprisals ;  and  with  cringe  and  shrug, 
And  bow  obsequious,  hide  their  hate  of  her." 

Week  after  week  we  had  in  our  own  set  one  continual 
scene  of  bustle  and  bewilderment.  Parties  succeeded 
parties ;  and  dinners  and  suppers  and  dances  made  up  the 
rest.  Four  brides  caused  all  this  tumult ;  more,  probably, 
than  they  ever  can  make  again :  unless,  in  the  mysterious 
course  of  events,  they  should  all  die  the  same  season,  and 
within  the  same  fortnight,  and  in  the  same  city.  Even 
then,  methinks,  the  stir  and  noise  would  be  nothing  to  what 
it  has  been.  The  friends  doubtless  would  "sympathize," 
and  perhaps  some  startled  youth  might  mutter  to  himself 
as  he  passed  along — 

"  This  looks  not  like  a  nuptial ;" 

but  the  current  of  oblivion  would  flow  smoothly  on  and 
over  them ;  the  summer's  grass  would  grow  green  upon 


THE  ITALIAN.  209 

their  graves,  and  the  winter's  snow  heap  forgetfulness  upon 
their  turf. — How  are  the  Battzes  ?  Where's  Mi  lor  Anglais  ? 
Who  knows  any  thing  about  any  body  1  Send  me  the  end 
of  the  segar  that  Alibaud  left  unsmoked,  just  as  he  was 
submitting  to  be  guillotined ;  I  want  to  preserve  it  in  a 
glass  case.  Do  you  know,  that  affair  always  puts  me  in 
mind  of  Barnardine :  "  Master  Barnardine,"  says  the  clown, 
"  you  must  rise  and  be  hanged,  Master  Barnardine !" 
Whereto  he  replies,  "  Away,  you  rogue,  away;  I  am 
sleepy !"  but  the  clown  persists,  "  Pray,  Master  Barnar- 
dine, awake  till  you  are  executed,  and  sleep  afterwards." 
Don't  forget  the  stump  of  that  segar.  N.  B.  What 
about  the  compound  fracture1?  did  the  lad  recover?  If 

he  didn't,  C killed  him ;  I  say  he  killed  him. 

How  is  the  roll-call  ?  Eemember  me  to  the  boys  each 
and  every.  Adieu.' 

"  Now,"  said  Vincent,  "  were  it  not  for  his  unbear- 
able affectation but  he  is  absent;  we  won't  make  his 

ears  burn.  Let's  drink  his  health." 

"And  then  leave  me  alone  with  the  'genius  of  the 
house,'  I  suppose,"  said  the  Italian. 

"  Alone  1  there  is  your  friend !"  pointing  to  the  Geno- 
ese, who  was  asleep  on  the  couch. 

"Slumber  is  a  temporary  death:  I  am  worse  than 
alone  in  such  a  case." 

"  Oh,  aye !  but  the  '  genius  of  the  house ;'  what  of  her  ? 


210  ROMANCE  OF  STUDENT   LIFE. 

We  are  to  have  a  description  one  of  these  evenings,  I 
suppose  ?" 

"  No,  you  are  not ;  at  least,  not  till  you  will  approach 
the  subject  with  more  reverence.  But  medical  students 
and  medical  men  are  a  set  of  materialists — a  miserable 
set  too.  I  pity  the  whole  race ;  and  particularly  because 
they  are  expected  to  do  so  much,  and  can  really  do 
so  little.  Voltaire,  carrying  out  this  idea,  pronounced  a 
physician  to  be  an  unfortunate  gentleman  who  is  called 
every  day  to  perform  a  miracle — 'reconcile  health  with 
intemperance.'  He  was  more  charitable  than  Talleyrand, 
who  always  declined  to  recommend  a  cook  or  a  medical 
man,  because  he  did  not  wish  to  be  held  guilty  of  murder 
as  an  accessary  before  the  fact !" 

"  Hallo !  what  is  the  matter  with  the  Signor  ?  Allow 
me  to  feel  your  pulse !"  and  Vincent  drew  out  his  watch 
with  a  professional  air,  and  commenced  counting. 

"  Signor  Italiano,  you  are  very  sick  indeed  ;  judging 
from  present  appearances,  I  should  say  your  life  might 
reasonably  be  despaired  of." 

"  Have  done  with  your  nonsense,"  said  the  Italian. 
"  You  won't  have  me  to  practise  it  on  much  longer, 
however.  We  are  off!" 

"  Off !    how  is  that  ?"   cried   several. 

"  I  am  tired  waiting  for  revolution  in  Europe :  we  are 
going  to  a  land  of  freemen — to  your  country,  Mr.  Vincent 


THE  ITALIAN.  211 

— THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  NORTH  AMERICA.  I  have  looked 
at  the  signs  of  the  times ;  it  is  of  no  use  for  us  to  wait. 
I  was  here  in  '30.  Blood  was  not  poured  out  in  vain  then. 
It  was  but  the  first  step ;  since  then  it  has  been  the  half 
step  backward.  But  it  is  coming — it  is  coming!  We 
shall  be  recalled  from  America  years  hence  to  fight  the 
battle  of  freedom — perhaps  in  these  very  streets.  Who 
knows  ?" 

The  Italian  paused ;  his  fine  countenance  was  lighted  by 
a  generous  fire ;  his  eyes  were  steadily  fixed  in  the 
distance,  as  if  attempting  to  penetrate  the  future.  I  could 
not  but  say  to  myself,  that  there  yet  burned  some  of  the 
spirit  of  ancient  Rome  in  the  breasts  of  those  whom  we 
are  apt  to  call  her  degenerate  sons. 

"  Yes,"  continued  the  Italian,  "  we  go  to  America. 
As  pilgrims  seek  a  shrine,  so  seek  we.  Once  there, 
we  shall  breathe  again  with  a  sense  of  freedom,  while 
the  thought  of  home,  when  the  waning  day  seeks  repose 
in  the  Occident,  will  fill  our  hearts  with  a  gentle  sad- 
ness, instead  of  the  bitterness  we  now  feel. 

1  Era  gia  1'ora  che  volge  '1  disio, 
A'  naviganti  e'ntenerisce  il  cuore, 
Lo  di  ch'  ban  detto  a'  dolci  amici  addio, 
E  che  lo  nuovo  peregrin  d'amore 
Punge,  se  ode  squilla  di  lontano, 
Che  paja  '1  giorno  pianger  che  si  muore.'  " 


212     ROMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

The  words  of  the  Italian  sensibly  affected  the  whole 
party.  I  have  before  mentioned  that  no  one  appeared 
to  know  precisely  about  him  or  hjs  companion;  both 
were  considerably  older  than  any  of  us.  As  Louis 
Philippe  was  at  that  time  very  tolerant  of  refugees, 
Paris  contained  an  unusual  number  of  them ;  and  no 
one  thought  it  best  to  ask  questions. 

"  Signor"  said  Von  Herberg,  after  a  few  minutes, 
in  which  we  were  all  silent,  "  have  you  ever  come  to 
any  different  conclusion  about  what  you  beheld  on  the 
Boulevards  one  night  of  the  Revolution?" 

"  I  still  hold  to  the  very  same ;  my  opinion  has  not 
changed  in  the  slightest.  The  day  will  come." 

"  What  is  it  ?"  whispered  one. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  said  another. 

"  What  were  you  speaking  of,  Von  Herberg  ?" 

"  He  speaks,  Messieurs,"  said  the  Italian,  emphatically, 
"  of  what  I  beheld  on  the  evening  of  the  last  of  the  '  Three 
Days.'" 

"What?  what?" 

"  You  know  at  that  time  there  was  some  hard  fighting : 
the  trees  on  many  of  the  Boulevards  were  cut  down,  and 
barricades  were  made  of  them,  with  the  aid  of  coaches  and 
omnibuses,  and  other  carriages.  It  happened  frequently 
that  the  people  had  not  time  to  carry  away  their  dead ;  so 
they  would  deposit  the  bodies  occasionally  in  a  position 


A  STRANGE  STORY.  213 

that  they  might  neither  be  trampled  on,  nor  passed  by  un- 
noticed when  occasion  should  permit  their  being  removed. 
I  was  going  along  the  Boulevard  du  Temple  the  evening  in 
question.  At  the  principal  barricade  an  immense  tree  with 
large  branches  lay  stretched  entirely  across  the  side-walk. 
As  I  endeavoured  to  work  my  way  through,  I  encountered 
a  man  planted  bolt  upright  against  one  of  the  limbs  of 
the  tree;  a  lantern  was  burning  near,  and  cast  its  light 
across  his  features :  a  second  glance  discovered  to  me  that 
he  was  dead.  I  had  seen  similar  sights,  and  this  did  not 
startle  me.  I  proceeded  on  my  way.  In  half-an-hour  I 
came  back,  and  passed  the  same  spot.  There  were  two 
men  placed  where  I  saw  the  one ;  each  was  the  exact 
counterpart  of  the  other,  in  every  particular  ;  just  alike — 
exactly  alike !  I  halted  so  near  that  I  could  touch  them. 
I  shut  my  eyes  and  opened  them  again ;  it  made  no  dif- 
ference. I  pinched  myself,  to  be  certain  I  was  not  in  a 
trance;  I  soon  satisfied  myself  on  that  point.  Then  I 
rubbed  my  eyes  very  briskly ;  still  there  stood  the  two ! 
It  was  then,  after  every  other  trial  had  failed,  that  I  put  out 
my  hand  to  touch  the  bodies.  I  extended  it  to  the  one 
nearest  me,  when  suddenly  the  other  raised  its  arm,  and, 
with  a  menacing  gesture,  interposed  its  hand  between  me 
and  the  dead  man.  I  was  perfectly  calm,  Messieurs,  because 
I  felt  conscious  of  no  ill :  I  deliberately  dropped  my  hand, 
and  at  once  the  arm  of  the  other  assumed  its  original  place. 


214      ROMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

I  was  determined  to  probe  the  matter.  I  stepped  a  little 
nearer,  to  take  hold  of  the  body  which  had  made  such  a 
strange  demonstration.  I  extended  my  hand  so  that  it 
would  rest  on  the  shoulder  of  the  other :  it  encountered 
nothing  ;  but  fell  by  its  own  weight  quite  heavily  to  my 
side.  Still  the  appearance  remained  ;  and  after  another 
look,  I  disengaged  myself  from  the  branches,  and  came 
away." 

"  A  very  interesting  case  of  optical  illusion,"  said  one. 

"  Very,"  responded  another. 

"  Yes,  indeed  !"  exclaimed  a  third. 

" Messieurs"  said  the  Italian,  warmly,  " there  was  no 
illusion  about  it:  I  was  as  cool  and  as  collected  as 
I  now  am.  I  tell  you  I  beheld  the  anima  of  the  dead 
citizen.  It  was  an  omen  that  our  cause — the  sacred  cause 
of  Freedom — LIVED  !  and  so  I  hailed  it ;  and  so  I  still  hail 
it !  The  day  WILL  come  !" 

"  Ah !  well,"  cried  Vincent,  "  I  don't  pretend  to  judge 
of  these  things.  Somehow,  those  who  want  to  see  ghosts, 
always  can  see  ghosts ;  and  those  who  are  unbelievers,  as 
you  say,  are  not  troubled  with  them.  For  myself,  I  prefer 
not  to  be  troubled.  But  what  a  break-up  we  shall  have  ! 
I  go  to  New  York  next  month.  Clements,  you  are  going 
to  London  ? " 

"Yes,  and  shall  take  Partridge  with  me  to  'walk' 
Guy's." 


THE   DISPERSION.  215 

"  Let  us  see,"  continued  Vincent ;  "  Signor  Italiano 
and  the  Genoese  off  too !  By  the  by,  we  must  manage  to 
go  together.  And  two  left  yesterday :  it  will  be  a  regular 
clearing  out !" 

Von  Herberg  and  I  looked  at  each  other.  "  We  must 
stick  together,"  I  said. 

"  We  will !" 

In  another  month  our  whole  society  were  scattered. 


216  ROMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 


CHAPTER    X. 

NEW    QUARTERS. 

THE  scene  has  changed.  Franz  von  Herberg  and 
myself  occupy  pleasant  apartments  in  the  rue  de  la 
Ckaussee  cCAntin;  quite  tout  en  haut,  to  be  sure,  in 
order  to  give  Franz  a  better  arrangement  for  his  canvass : 
yet  the  situation  is  for  the  time  certainly  a  delightful  one. 
Partridge  and  Clements  are  in  London.  The  former  is 
determined  to  compare  practically  the  English  and  French 
methods  of  treatment.  He  writes  me  he  is  charmed  with 
Astley  Cooper,  and  that  he  likes  Key.  Clements  is  not 
satisfied  quite.  No  Englishman  ever  admits  that  he  is 
entirely  pleased  in  his  own  country,  and  out  of  it,  every 
thing  is  wrong.  I  do  not  mean  this  as  applicable  to  my 
friend,  for  he  is  essentially  a  cosmopolite. 

I  have  become  very  much  attached  to  Franz.  He  is 
a  congenial  companion ;  a  true  artist ;  and  what  is  more, 
he  is  a  German  without  being  mystical.  We  are  almost 
inseparable. 

A  narrow  balcony  runs  before  our  windows,  just  wide 


OUR   OPPOSITE  NEIGHBOURS.  217 

enough  to  admit  a  chair :   here  we  sit  and   converse,   or 
watch  what  is  passing ; 

"  And  dizzy  'tis,  to  cast  one's  eyes  so  low !" 

Sometimes  I  direct  my  attention  to  our  neighbours 
opposite.  Those  directly  in  front  are  a  comfortable- 
looking  old  couple,  without  "  chick  or  child :"  they  spend 
nearly  the  entire  day  playing  backgammon.  They  are 
playing  in  the  morning  as  I  take  a  look  across  after 
breakfast:  they  play  during  the  day  incessantly.  The 
old  gentleman  goes  out  about  twelve ;  he  returns  in 
two  hours,  and  they  commence  playing  again.  After 
dinner  both  go  out  together;  and  when  they  come  hi 
they  begin  once  more.  So  they  have  gone  on  for  weeks. 
It  makes  me  nervous.  I  have  a  restless,  unconquer- 
able desire  to  rush  over,  seize  board  and  dice  and 
boxes,  and  toss  them  out  of  the  window.  Why  won't 
they  stop  playing?  Can  such  a  sight  be  witnessed  any 
where  but  in  Paris? 

The  rooms  next  to  the  backgammon  players  are 
occupied  by  two  nice-looking  grisettes.  How  much  taste 
is  displayed  in  the  arrangement  of  their  simple  furniture  ! 
Outside,  on  the  ridge  formed  by  the  retreating  roof,  are 
displayed  a  row  of  flower-pots :  I  was  about  to  say  the 
plants  are  cultivated  with  great  care,  but  nothing  like 

care  is  manifested.    They  are  looked  after  and  cherished 
10 


218     ROMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

with  the  same  tenderness  one  would  wait  upon  sorm 
living  thing. 

These  girls  are  evidently  sisters.  They  rise  early, 
and  before  breakfast  they  come  to  their  flowers, 

"  To  visit  how  they  prosper,  bud,  and  bloom.'' 

They  talk  to  them — they  caress  them — they  watch  every 
bud ;  they  mourn  if  some  noxious  insect  has,  unperceived, 
committed  any  depredations.  Occasionally  a  new  plant 
is  brought  home,  and  then  such  an  excitement  is  produced ! 
I  can  easily  imagine  that  these  flowers  grow  the  gladlier 
under  such  "  fair  tendance."  After  breakfast  they  put 
on  their  neat  little  caps,  and  go  to  their  labours:  they 
work  all  day,  and  come  back  at  night  as  cheerful  as 
crickets. 

On  the  other  side  of  our  players  lives  an  old  lady  with 
an  idiot  son.  He  is  grown  up.  He  seems  quite  harmless. 
The  poor  woman  is  very  devoted  to  him.  In  the  morning 
she  attends  to  his  toilet,  washes  his  face,  combs  his  hair, 
and  places  his  chair  for  him.  Then  she  prepares  his 
breakfast,  and  feeds  him  as  she  would  an  infant.  He 
never  shows  any  emotion,  except  to  betray  his  satisfaction 
by  a  hideous  grin,  and  his  dislike  by  strange,  unearthly  ex- 
clamations. His  mother  loves  him — loves  this  abortion  ! 
She  caresses  him :  I  see  her  do  so  daily.  Yes,  that  idiot 
is  loved.  He  can  return  no  affection :  lie  can  feel  none. 


PEOPLE   OF   FASHION.  219 

Poor  lad  !  Poor  woman !  Why  do  I  say  "  poor  lad !" 
"  poor  woman !"  What  right  have  I  to  say  so  1  God  only 
knows  whether  it  be  so  or  not.  God  help  them,  and 
forgive  me! 

One  "  flat"  lower  down,  and  I  see  a  comfortable  family 
who  belong  to  the  shopkeeping  class,  all  of  whom  are 
turning  their  hands  to  something.  How  gayly  they  sally 
forth  Sunday  morning  to  mass ;  and  in  the  afternoon  for 
an  excursion  in  the  gardens,  or  perhaps  a  little  way 
out  of  town. 

Lower  still,  if  I  count  correctly,  au  troisieme,  I  per- 
ceive very  fine  people — fashionable  people — with  ex- 
quisite furniture,  mirrors,  curtains,  paintings.  They  live, 
one  would  suppose,  expensively ;  and  yet  every  sous 
is  calculated  as  closely  and  as  systematically  here  as 
by  their  neighbours  tout  en  haut.  Strange  as  it  may 
seem,  notwithstanding  the  elegance  of  the  repast,  which 
is  daily  served  at  five  o'clock,  I  would  lay  an  even 
wager  that  the  unexpected  presence  of  two  friends  at 
the  dinner-table  would  endanger  the  sufficiency  of  the 
supply,  and  put  the  family  to  inconvenience.  From  high 
to  low  the  French  are  the  most  economical  people  on  the 
face  of  the  earth.  But  this  is  not  romance. 


"  Franz,"   said  I,  one  morning,  as  we  were  returning 


220  ROMANCE   OF   STUDENT   LIFE. 

from  the  inspection  of  one  of  David's  paintings  in  a 
private  collection  which  my  companloi  desired  me  to  see, 
"  Franz,  you  recollect  you  were  trying  to  paint  something, 
I  do  not  know  what,  when  we  were  in  the  rue  Copeau, 
which  you  then  found  it  impossible  to  finish.  I  have 
wanted  very  often  to  ask  you  what  it  was,  and  whether 
you  have  since  completed  it;  pray  tell  me  now." 

"  Simply  this,"  said  \7on  Herberg.  "  I  was  at  one 
time  in  the  habit  of  attending  service  at  the  church 
Notre  Dame  de  Lorelte.  I  was  first  attracted  there  by  the 
music,  and  afterwards  by  the  eloquence  of  a  young  man, 
who  was  the  only  priest  in  Paris  that  I  ever  listened  to 
with  interest.  One  day,  as  the  people  were  moving  out  of 
church,  I  saw  a  commotion  near  one  of  the  side-chapels. 
I  went  to  the  spot.  An  old  mendicant,  who  had  for 
a  long  time  been  in  the  habit  of  frequenting  the  place, 
had  just  been  discovered,  leaning  against  the  wall,  in  a 
kneeling  posture,  but  quite  in  a  lifeless  state. 

"It  seemed  as  if  vitality  were  lingering  about  him 
when  I  came  up,  for  there  remained  on  his  features 
a  certain  living  expression,  worn  doubtless  during  the 
last  moments  of  existence.  I  cannot  describe  it  to  you. 
There  was  nothing  repulsive — nothing  disagreeable  in 
it;  but  such  as  you  would  imagine  a  weary  wretch 
to  exhibit  when  about  to  be  freed  from  the  load  of 
life,  and  transported  into  those  regions  of  bliss  which 


A  SERIOUS   DISCUSSION.  221 

faith  has  made  clear  to  him.  Ah !  if  I  could  only 
depict  that !  It  was  in  vain.  I  tried,  and  tried  again, 
but  could  do  nothing  with  it.  By  the  way,  do  you 
not  believe  some  agency  might  be  introduced  to  bring 
back  the  escaped  or  escaping  spirit?  May  we  not 
look  for  some  wonders  yet  through  the  aids  of  elec- 
tricity 7" 

I  shook  my  head. 

"  Why  not  ?"  continued  Von  Herberg.  "  Life  has 
been  compared  to  a  caudle.  Now  I  cannot  better  illus- 
trate my  meaning  than  by  referring  to  it.  Extinguish 
a  candle,  and  you  easily  relight  it,  without  any  direct 
contact,  by  applying  a  torch  to  the  column  of  smoke 
which  rises  from  it,  even  at  a  considerable  distance.  So 
it  has  seemed  to  me  that  vitality  might,  by  electrical 
process,  be  brought  back,  if  application  should  be  made 
seasonably.  And  such  appeared  to  be  the  situation  of 
the  beggar  in  the  church  of  our  Lady  of  Lorette  when  I 
first  beheld  him. — Strange  that  I  could  not  catch  that 
expression !" 

"  There  are  many  reasons,"  I  replied,  "  why  the 
analogy  should  fail ;  although  I  confess  I  am  struck  by 
the  way  you  present  it :  but  after  all,  disguise  it  as 
you  will,  it  is  no  more  nor  less  than  rank  materialism. 
I  abominate  it !  I  shudder  at  it !  No  man  hath  power 
to  retain  the  spirit,  much  less  reclaim  it.  Indeed,  very 


222  ROMANCE   OF  STUDENT   LIFE. 

apropos  of  this  are  the  lines  of  Sir  Richard  Blackmore ; 
(Von  Herberg  understood  English  well;)   let  me  repeat 

them : 

» 
'  A  flowing  river,  or  a  standing  lake, 

May  their  dry  banks  and  naked  shores  forsake  ; 
Their  waters  may  exhale  and  upward  move, 
Their  channel  leave  to  roll  in  clouds  above ; 
But  the  returning  winter  will  restore 
What  in  the  summer  they  had  lost  before : 
But  if,  O  man,  thy  vital  streams  desert 
Their  purple  channels,  and  defraud  the  heart, 
With  fresh  recruits  they  ne'er  will  be  supplied, 
Nor  feel  their  leaping  life's  returning  tide.'  " 

"  Those  are  very  fine,"  said  my  friend ;  "  but  I  do  not 
think  they  are  directly  applicable.  Perhaps  they  are 
though.  What  a  mystery  is  this  dying.  How  on  a 
sudden  was  our  beggar  promoted  over  all  who  surrounded 
him.  What  notice  he  attracted,  too,  for  once  !  Not  a 
soul  would  have  turned  their  head  around  for  him  while 
alive,  yet  how  they  all  thronged  around  with  their 
'  sympathies'  when  he  was  dead.  How  disappointed 
might  some  have  been  if  he  had  revived,  and  made 
personal  application  for  relief.  But  here  we  are  at 
home.  Where  shall  we  dine  to-day1?" 

"  What  say  you  to  Champaux  1" 

"So  be  it:  let  us  go. — I  shall  never  get  that  out  of 
my  brain  till  I  can  get  it  on  canvass." 


CHAMPAUX'S.  223 

"Perhaps  you  will  be  more   successful  now  that  I 
have  roused  you  into  a  new  excitement." 

"  It  may  be   so,  but   I  do  not  want  to  be  excited." 
"Dinner  will  prove  a  sedative." 
"So  I  hope.    Come." 


224     ROMANCE  OF  STUDKNT  LIFE. 


CHAPTEE    XI. 

THE     CAFE. 

WE  were  seated,  leisurely  discussing  the  merits  of 
Cliampaux's  carte,  when  I  heard  a  loud  voice  near  us, 
which  attracted  our  attention  so  much  that  we  turned  to 
listen  to  it. 

"Garsong,  why  the  deuce  don't  you  venez  id?" 

The  waiter  came  up. 

"  Do  you  suppose  I  am  going  to  manger  such  dish- 
water stuff?  What  do — a — a — s'appeller  cela?" 

"  Potage,  Monsieur.'1'' 

"  Pottage  !  Now  do  you  a — a — comprenez  ?  I  don't 
want  pottage — I  want  SOUP  !  Do  you  hear  that — a — a — 
entendez  vous  ?" 

"  Oui,  Monsieur." 

"  Then  why  the  devil  don't  you  make  tracks  for  it,  eh  1" 

The  waiter  stood  in  mute  astonishment,  with  a  perma- 
nent shrug  on  his  left  shoulder. 

"  I  say,"  continued  the  other,  "  what  are  you  standing 
there  for?  Where  are  the  pizes1?" 


A   CHARACTER.  225 

"  Des  pois,  Monsieur  ?"  said  the  poor  garpon,  catchiiig 
at  the  word ;  "  out,  Monsieur ;"  and  he  was  hurrying  off. 

"Stop!  a — a — arretez!"  said  our  character,  catching 
the  other  by  the  arm ;  "  what  are  you  after  now  7" 

The  garpon  cast  an  expression  of  mute  despair  over  the 
room.  Happening  to  catch  our  eyes,  (for  I  must  say  we 
were  enjoying  the  scene  immensely,)  he  assumed  such  an 
appealing  look  that  I  rose  and  stepped  forward  to  act  as 
interpreter,  when  all  at  once  I  recognised  in  the  individ- 
ual a  good-natured,  rattle-brained,  go-ahead  New  Yorker, 
to  whom  I  was  introduced  a  few  weeks  previous,  and  who 
had  come  out  on  business  to  England,  and  was  determined, 
as  he  said,  to  have  his  own  fun,  and  see  Paris,  if  he  didn't 
know  the  language.  He  greeted  me  immediately.  The 
usual  congratulatory  expressions  passed,  and  I  hastened  to 
introduce  Wilcox  to  Von  Herberg,  and  transferred  him 
without  ceremony  to  our  table.  After  that,  I  inquired 
how  he  had  been  since  I  last  saw  him? 

"  How  have  I  been  ?  I  have  been  starving — slowly, 
gradually  starving  to  death  I  Look  at  me  !"  and  Wilcox 
put  his  hand  over  his  large,  fat  face,  and  across  his  stout 
arms.  "Yes;  ever  since  I  have  come  to  this  infernal 
place,  I  have  been  trying  to  get  one  substantial  meal  of 
victuals;  and  I  tell  you  I  CAN'T  DO  IT:" 

Here  the  garfon,  who  had  taken  the  opportunity  to 
absent  himself  as  soon  as  he  saw  us  engage  in  conversa- 

10* 


220      ROMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

tion,  returned  with  the  plate  of  peas  which  our  friend 
had  ordered. 

"  There !"  exclaimed  Wilcox,  "  do  you  see  that  ?  This 
is  what  they  call  a  plate  of  peas — plate  pizes,  I  suppose 
I  should  say.  Now  look  at  them.  Do  you  see" — taking 
up  a  large  table-spoon — "I  can  put  the  whole  'plate'  in 
this  spoon  and  swallow  them  at  one  mouthful.  Here, 
garsong,  bring  me  a  plate  pizes,  American — large — gros, 
comme  fa.  By  George,  I  am  getting  desperate.  I  want 
something  to  EAT!  And  there's  something  else  I  want; 
I  want  a  bottle  of  Scotch  ale.  I  would  give  this  minute  a 
guinea  for  a  bottle  of  Scotch  ale — a  good,  stiff,  quart 
bottle  of  Scotch  ale.  Can  it  be  got  in  this  city  ?" 

"Yes;  I  will  give  you  the  direction  where  you  can 
have  the  genuine  article." 

"  Then  I  am  off!" — seizing  his  hat — "  but  stop ;  now 
you  are  here  I  will  make  one  more  effort  for  something 
to  eat.  No  Scotch  here,  I  suppose?" 

I  shook  my  head,  while  Von  Herberg  suggested  that 
he  could  order  a  bottle  of  beer. 

"  No  you  don't !"  exclaimed  Wilcox.  "  I  want  none 
of  that  wishy-washy  stuff.  I  thought  yesterday  I  had 
found  something  which  would  go  to  the  right  spot.  I 
called  on  the  ale — the  boy  brought  me  a  great  big  bottle, 
comme  fa,  (lifting  up  his  hands,)  which  held  about  two 
quarts.  I  began  to  lick  my  lips  over  it.  The  cork  was 


NEW  METHOD  OF  DINING.  227 

drawn — my  tumbler  filled.  I  was  thirsty;  understand 
that.  I  fixed  my  eyes  on  the  garsong,  and  I  began  to 
drink.  The  dog  looked  guilty,  and  was  about  to  sneak 
away.  I  gulped  two  swallows  before  I  knew  what  I 
was  doing.  I  set  down  the  glass.  '  Boy !'  I  shouted,  for 
I  was  too  much  excited  to  speak  French — '  boy !  what's 
this  you  have  been  giving  me  V  And  what  do  you  think 
it  was  ?"  said  Wilcox — "  for  the  poor  devil  was  too  fright- 
ened to  answer  me — what  do  you  think  it  was1?" 

"Beer,  I  suppose." 

'•'•Beer?  I  should  call  it  a  compound  of  water  and 
molasses  kept  just  long  enough  to  be  a  little  sour. 
How  much  do  you  suppose  they  charged  me  for  it — 
two  quarts  at  least  ?  I  will  tell  you — ten  cents,  ha,  ha, 
ha  !  ten  cents,  as  I  am  a  live  man,  ha,  ha,  ha  !  I  put 
up  the  money,  and  sloped — glad  to  get  off  so.  But  what 
are  you  eating,  eh  1  I  see — a  mutton-chop.  Speaking  of 
eating,  some  lads  I  fell  in  with  here  said  they  would  let 
me  into  the  secret  of  dining  well,  and  a  fanciful  way  of 
getting  a  dinner  it  is.  The  party  that  came  over  with 
me  all  manage  it  that  fashion,  and  it's  after  this  style. 
The  plan  is  for  five  to  go  together  and  order  dinner 
for  three.  In  this  way  they  say  they  get  a  variety. 
Egad,  I  am  thinking  I  could  better  the  system — let 
every  man  go  by  himself  and  order  for  jive.  That 
is  a  good  plan,  and  it  has  just  struck  me — I'll  carry 


228      ROMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

it  out.  Garsong!  you  little  vagabond,  come  here — 
a — a — desservir — a — a — curse  the  pottage — off  with  it; 
that's  plain  American.  Now,  let  us  see :  roast  beef — no 
go ;  beef-steak — can't  cook  it ;  mutton-chops — first  rate, 
if  I  could  only  have  enough  of  them.  Just  tell  this 
fellow  to  bring  mutton-chops  for  five  and  potatoes  to 
match." 

I  looked  incredulous.  "Upon  my  word  I  mean  it. 
I  pledge  you  my  honour  I  am  dying  from  HUNGER! 
Tell  him  to  be  in  a  hurry." 

As  Wilcox  was  obstinately  set  on  having  his  way, 
I  gave  the  order  with  an  explanation,  to  the  gar^on,  that 
our  friend  was  a  mad  wag  who  wanted  to  indulge  in 
his  joke.  The  poiage  was  removed,  and  the  chops  and 
potatoes  actually  served,  and,  what  is  more,  were  eaten. 
Badinage  apart,  I  really  believe  that  Wilcox  was  not 
only  hungry,  but  that  he  had  really  suffered  from  the 
manner  he  had  been  treated  to  French  dishes. 

"Have  you  been  in  Paris  the  whole  time  since  I 
met  you?" 

"  No,"  said  Wilcox,  emphatically ;  "  and  that's  what 
I  want  to  tell  you  about — I  am  going  to  make  a  grand 
business  of  it.  I  undertook  to  go  to  the  south  of 
France,  for  I  didn't  care  about  being  home  before 
cold  weather,  and  as  I  was  improving  so  much  in 
French,  I  thought  I  would  venture  it.  I  got  on  well 


WILCOX   OK   HIS  TKAVELS.  229 

enough  to  Lyons,  for  there  was  an  acquaintance  of 
mine  going  there,  who  knew  the  country  well. 

"The  morning  after  I  reached  Lyons,  I  started  for 
Marseilles,  when,  about  half  way,  we  came  to  a  small, 
dirty  town,  with  a  narrow  stone  gateway  for  an  entrance. 
I  cannot  remember  the  name  of  the  place ;  I  don't  want 
to  remember  it ;  indeed,  I  don't  believe  I  ever  knew. 
Well,  we  halted  at  the  gate.  Our  passports  were  called 
for  and  taken  from  us  as  usual,  and  we  cracked  into  a 
little  tavern  and  stopped.  I  thought  at  the  time  one 
of  the  guards  eyed  me  suspiciously.  Presently  a  soldier 
came  up  to  me.  He  could  speak  English  a  little. 

" '  Monsieur  is  an  Englishman,'  he  said. 

"I  shook  my  head.      'American,'  says  I. 

"  At  that  he  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  said,  '  Mon- 
sieur  cannot  proceed.' 

"'Why  not?' 

"'Passport  has  not  the  vise  of  the  Prefecture  of 
Police  at  Paris.  Monsieur  must  remain  here.' 

"A  pretty  muss  I  was  in,  to  be  sure;  but  that  was 
not  the  worst  of  it.  It  turned  out  that  an  Englishman 
had,  a  little  before,  left  Paris,  who  was  accused  of  a  trea- 
sonable correspondence  with  some  of  the  cursed  factions 
opposed  to  the  government,  and  it  became  important  to 
arrest  him.  A  description  of  his  person  had  been  sent 
all  over  the  country,  and,  what  was  deucedly  unlucky,  it 


230     ROMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

answered  almost  precisely  to  me.  Of  course  I  pro- 
tested in  the  most  vigorous  terms  that  mortal  man  could 
invent.  If  you  understand  any  thing  about  a  Frenchman, 
you  should  know  that  the  more  importunate  you  are, 
the  more  dogged  is  he.  The  more  excited  you  become, 
the  more  indifferent  he  grows.  I  could  not  move  the 
rascal.  He  referred  me  to  the  mayor;  and,  guarded 
like  a  felon,  I  was  introduced  to  that  dignitary.  Of 
course  he  was  on  the  alert  for  a  criminal ;  and,  once 
more  of  course,  I  was  the  criminal.  I  argued,  I  entreated, 
I  explained,  I  insisted.  It  was  of  no  use.  '  American 
citizen'  had  no  terror  for  Monsieur  le  Maire.  I  wanted 
to  send  to  our  Consul  at  Marseilles.  The  ignorant, 
stubborn  old  fool  said  it  was  altogether  unnecessary. 
It  was  a  very  simple  business.  My  passport  was  to 
go  back  to  Paris,  and  I  was  to  go  to  the  town  jail, 
or  whatever  you  call  it.  If  the  Prefecture  of  Police 
said  'all  right,'  and  affixed  his  vise,  then  all  right  it 
would  be;  otherwise,  I  was  certainly  the  'Englishman,' 
no  matter  what  the  American  Consul  said  on  the 
subject. 

"'But,'  urged  I,  endeavouring  to  keep  my  temper, 
'  suppose  my  passport  should  happen  to  come  back 
"  all  right,"  what  excuse  would  you  have  for  treating 
me  in  this  outrageous  manner?' 

"  I  was  answered   by   a  shrug,   and  a  cursed  impu- 


WILCOX  IN  TROUBLE.  231 

dent,  incredulous  gesture,  but  not  a  word  would  the 
old  devil  say.  I  tried  him  again  and  again ;  he 
grew  worse  and  worse,  until  he  ceased  to  notice  me 
at  all. 

"  The  result  was,  I  was  marched  off  to  the  jail — 
a  most  dirty  old  building,  with  a  hftavy  stone  archway, 
over  which  were  inscribed  certain  words  which  I  sha'n't 
soon  forget.  I  am  a  pretty  good  French  scholar — you 
needn't  smile — and  it  didn't  take  me  long  to  read  them, 
and  I  believe  the  malicious  puppies  halted  on  purpose  so 
that  I  should.  I  said  I  never  should  forget  the  words. 
No  more  shall  I;  but,  for  fear  I  might,  I  took  occasion 
to  put  them  down  among  my  memorandums."  Wilcox 
pulled  out  of  his  pocket  a  small  note-book,  opened  it, 
and,  putting  his  finger  upon  a  line  he  had  pencilled,  said, 
"  There  you  have  it." 

We  both  read  aloud  in  the  same  breath, 
"  Id  on  se  repent,  mais  il  est  trop  tard ;" 
And    both    of   us    burst    into    a    laugh,   despite    the 
wanton  lack  of  sympathy  which  it  manifested. 

"  Gentlemen,"  continued  Wilcox,  "  it  was  no  laughing 
matter,  let  me  tell  you  that.  After  I  had  spelled  it 
out,  my  teeth  began  to  chatter,  for  I  did  not  know 
what  these  cannibals  were  going  to  do  with  me.  Well, 
1  was  marched  into  a  narrow  hall,  from  each  side 
of  which  doors  opened  upon  loathsome'  cells,  and  into 


232      KOMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

one  of  these  I  was  thrust.  I  believe  I  began  some 
hideous  lamentations,  for  a  horrible-looking  wretch  ap- 
proached me  from  one  corner  of  the  cell — he  was  my 
messmate,  you  understand — and  in  very  tolerable  En- 
glish endeavoured  to  console  me.  '  A  cove  must  expect 
to  be  lodged  once'  in  a  while ;  I  must  put  a  good 
face  on  the  business.  Keep  quiet,  take  it  easy,  never 
say  die — it  might  have  been  worse.' 

"I  sat  down  on  the  miserable  boards  where  I  was 
to  lie,  and  which  were  covered  with  a  single  blanket, 
and  undertook  to  explain  to  the  fellow  that  I  was  no 
criminal,  but  was  most  unjustly  and  unwarrantably  in- 
carcerated. 

" '  Oh,  certainly,  of  course  ;  but  you  need  not  be 
afraid  of  me — I  never  peaches.' 

"  At  that  instant  I  started  to  my  feet  as  if  I  were 
shot,  and  gave  a  bound  that  sent  my  head  against 
the  top  of  the  cell;  then  I  commenced  pulling  at  my 
clothes. 

" '  What  is  the  matter  with  the  poor  boy  ?'  said 
my  vagabond,  in  a  comforting  way.  'It's  nothing  but 
the  fleas,  do  you  see.  After  you  have  been  here  a  while 
you'll  get  used  to  them.' 

"  I  yelled  with  vexation :  I  wanted  to  beat  my  head 
to  pieces  against  the  door,  but  at  last  I  flung  myself 
in  despair  on  the  loathsome  bench,  and  gave  myself  up 


MEETS  WITH   FRESH  MISFORTUNES.      233 

soul  and  body  to  the  fleas  :  as  somebody  once  said,  if 
they  had  been  unanimous,  they  would  have  lifted  me  out 
of  bed.  I  expected  to  die  there  ;  I  sometimes  think  I 
did  die,  and  have  not  come  to  life  again. 

"  On  the  third  day  I  got  a  request  forwarded  to  the 
mayor  demanding  an  interview :  much  to  my  surprise  he 
came  to  me,  was  tolerably  civil,  but  perfectly  unmove- 
able  on  the  subject  of  setting  me  at  liberty.  He  had 
sent  my  passport  to  Paris,  and  in  due  time  the  case 
would  be  attended  to,  and  the  old  villain  made  me  a 
low  bow  and  took  himself  off. 

"  On  the  same  day  my  vagabond  messmate  was  set 
at  liberty,  and  I  prepared  a  short  note  addressed 
to  Americans,  Englishmen,  and  to  the  American  Consul, 
which  the  scamp  promised  to  deliver  to  some  proper 
person,  if  he  had  to  walk  all  the  way  to  Marseilles 
to  do  it. 

"  After  he  left  I  was  in  better  spirits — judge  of  my 
astonishment,  however,  when  at  night  Monsieur  Tonson 
was  brought  back,  having  been  caught  in  attempting  to 
commit  some  petty  theft  the  moment  he  turned  his 
back  on  the  town.  He  was  searched,  and  my  letter 
was  found  on  him,  and  as  it  spoke  of  Monsieur  le  Maire 
as  an  unmitigated  ass,  villain,  fool,  scoundrel,  and  what 
not,  I  expected  to  be  summarily  dealt  with.  Here  I 
was  mistaken — the  old  donkey  came  to  the  jail,  brought 


234  ROMANCE  OF  STUDENT   LIFE. 

me  my  letter,  and,  without  a  word  of  comment,  marched 
off.  Luckily,  he  was  too  firmly  intrenched  in  his  own 
conceit  to  be  moved  by  it. 

"  But  I  was  in  luck  after  all.  A  rumour  of  the 
matter  found  its  way  among  the  passengers  of  the  next 
diligence.  There  was  one  genuine  Yankee  among  them. 
— '  I'll  stand  by  that  chap  as  long  as  /  live ' — he  could 
speak  French  like  a  native — he  insisted  on  visiting  me. 
I  gave  him  the  whole  story.  He  went  to  the  magis- 
trate, declared  to  him  that  he  knew  me,  and  all  that 
sort  of  thing,  and  demanded  my  liberty.  Although 
this  shook  the  old  fellow's  faith  in  my  being  the 
Englishman,  he  would  not  liberate  me,  but  I  got  a 
better  room  forthwith,  and  was  treated  with  some 
decency. 

"  My  friend  hurried  on  to  Paris,  had  the  matter  over- 
hauled forthwith — it  would  have  taken  a  month  as  it 
was  going  on — and  in  three  or  four  days  more  I  was 
released.  Now,  what  do  you  think  I  did  1  I  had  vowed 
vengeance  on  the  mayor,  and  determined  to  take  the 
first  instalment  out  in  heavy  curses  over  his  head  and 
shoulders,  well  laid  on.  But  the  old  fellow  came  to 
me,  and  in  measured  terms  tendered  his  regret  at 
what  had  occurred,  as  if  it  was  entirely  a  matter  of 
necessity,  and  at  the  same  time  asked  me  to  dine  with 
him,  with  such  profound  gravity,  that  I  was  completely 


WILCOX  IN  LUCK  AT  LAST.  235 

upset.  I  couldn't  stand  the  dining.  I  declined — but 
how  could  I  swear  at  him  after  that1? 

"I  took  the  next  diligence  for  Paris,  and  have  since 
my  return  been,  as  I  told  you,  fairly  wasting  away 
under  the  effects  of  starvation.  I  have  eaten  something 
now,  I'll  go  and  get  the  ale,  and  I  am  thinking  to- 
morrow I  will  vamose.  Call  on  me,  will  you,  when 
you  come  to  New  York1?" 

We  separated.  I  have  never  seen  this  curious  fellow 
since.  He  went,  I  understood,  shortly  after  to  South 
America,  and  that's  the  last  I  ever  heard  of  him. 


As  Von  Herberg  and  I  were  returning  from  the 
cafe  to  our  lodgings,  we  saw  preparations  for  a  funeral 
before  one  of  the  finest  houses.  My  friend  took  my 
arm,  and  we  stepped  up  the  staircase  and  into  the 
room  where  the  dead  lay.  There  was  already  a  good 
many  in  the  apartment.  The  coffin  was  placed  in  the 
centre,  and  immense  wax  candles  were  ranged  around 
it,  throwing  their  rays  over  the  darkened  room.  The 
splendid  mirrors  were  covered,  so  as  not  to  reflect 
the  countenance  of  the  deceased,  and  so  shock  those 
present.  Magnificent  bouquets,  purchased  at  a  large 
expense,  were  laid  on  the  richly  ornamented  coffin,  but 
I  saw  no  simple  flowers  strewed  over  it;  indeed,  every 


236      KOMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

thing  had  reference  to  ostentation  and  display.  Not 
one  of  the  proprieties  of  a  funeral  were  omitted ;  and, 
that  the  departed  might  be  properly  assoiled,  an  unusual 
number  of  priests  were  in  attendance.  Were  it  not 
that  the  man  was  dead,  the  spectacle  would  have  been 
rather  an  agreeable  one  than  otherwise.  Those  in  the 
room  were  becomingly  triste,  while  nobody  seemed  to 
mourn. 

We  contemplated  the  scene  for  a  while,  then  descended 
to  the  street  again. 

"  What  think  you  of  this  idea  of  endeavouring  to 
present  death  in  a  less  formidable  shape?" 

"  I  don't  believe  in  it,"  answered  my  friend.  "  Death 
is  a  terrible  event,  and  it  ought  to  be  so  regarded  by 
us.  Any  attempt  to  dilute  the  effect  produced  on  us 
by  the  great  Destroyer  seems  to  me  unnatural  in  the 
extreme.  Every  thing  here  is  overwrought.  Affection 
may  dictate  the  planting  of  a  flower  on  the  grave  of 
those  we  love,  or  scattering  fresh-gathered  blossoms  over 
it;  but  when  shops  are  erected  to  manufacture  these 
tokens  of  remembrance,  when  one  pays  for  the  gathering 
and  the  arranging  of  the  garlands, — nay,  when  the  very 
flowers  of  which  they  are  composed  are  artificial, — I  con- 
sider it  a  sacrilegious  mockery  of  real  grief,  and  of  the 
feelings  of  the  sincere  mourner." 

"I  think  so." 


DEATH — FUNEBALS.  237 

"  Strange,"  continued  Von  Herberg,  "  that  even  at  the 
last  moment — in  death  itself — every  thing  is  done  that 
can  be  done  to  relieve  against  the  indignity  of  dying. 
Gorgeous  funerals,  costly  grave-clothes,  magnificent  monu- 
ments ;  in  every  thing  the  artificial  for  the  natural.  What 
was  first  a  mark  of  real  affliction  has  come  to  take 
its  place  altogether.  A  righteous  retribution,  when  we 
attempt  to  give  form  and  substance  to  feelings  which 
are  at  once  destroyed  by  exposure  and  parade." 

The  subject  was  not  a  cheerful  one,  and  I  did  not 
encourage  Von  Herberg  to  pursue  it ;  for  he  was  always 
too  much  inclined  to  fall  into  a  melancholy  mood. 

We  had  wandered  in  the  direction  of  the  Tuilleries, 
and  were  brought  back  to  pleasing  visions  of  this  world 
by  the  clear,  merry  laughter  of  the  children,  who  were 
running  and  skipping  from  place  to  place  in  all  the 
exuberance  of  young  life. 


238     ROMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 


CHAPTBE    XII. 

ALMOST     AT     THE     END. 

STRANGE  to  say,  we  soon  tired  of  the  fashionable  part 
of  Paris,  and  had  we  purposed  to  remain  for  a  much 
longer  period,  I  do  think  we  should  have  sought  our 
old  quarters.  As  it  was,  after  spending  a  few  weeks 
in  looking  at  all  that  was  worthy  of  observation,  as 
well  in  the  streets  as  out  of  them,  we  undertook  several 
short  excursions  into  the  surrounding  country,  sufficiently 
far  from  Paris  to  be  out  of  the  reach  of  its  immediate 
influence.  These  excursions  we  enjoyed  exceedingly;  I 
will,  however,  give  an  account  of  but  one  of  them.  As 
it  is  impossible  to  prejudge  the  effect  of  a  work  upon 
the  reader,  I  have  thought  it  would  be  judicious  to 
bring  my  volume  to  a  close  before  it  reached  a  length 
which  should  make  it  particularly  ponderous  if  it  met 
with  disfavour ;  while,  on  the  other  hand,  should  it  prove 
acceptable  to  any,  I  shall  take  leave  of  such  while  the 
impression  is  still  an  agreeable  one. 


WK  PREPARK  TO   LEAVE   PARIS.          239 

The  autumn  had  come  round  again.  Partridge, 
having  finished  his  prescribed  course  in  London,  now 
rejoined  us.  We  were  to  spend  the  winter  in  Germany. 
In  the  spring  Partridge  was  to  return  to  America,  and 
locate  in  Philadelphia. — Why  may  I  not,  even  here,  pay 
a  passing  tribute  to  his  subsequent  career.  Thank  God, 
he  still  lives,  enjoying,  as  a  practising  physician,  the 
reward  of  his  patient,  scrutinizing  investigations  in  almost 
every  hospital  in  Europe — an  old  and  long-tried  and 
attached  friend. 

We  were  preparing  for  our  departure.  While  Part- 
ridge was  out  attending  to  some  commissions,  Von 
Herberg  brought  into  my  room  a  picture,  which  he 
had  just  finished.  He  had  purposely  kept  it  out  of 
sight  till  it  was  completed,  and  now  it  stood  on  the 
table  perfect — absolutely  perfect. 

At  this  moment  Partridge  came  in.  He  was  attracted 
at  once  by  the  painting.  He  wanted  to  know  all  about  it. 
There  was  some  incident  connected  with  it — he  knew 
there  was. 

I  was,  however,  in  no  haste  to  explain.  I  remembered 
the  summary  way  I  was  dragged  from  Calais  when  I 
was  so  desirous  of  loitering  on  the  road,  so  I  took  the 
opportunity  of  teasing  my  friend  for  a  few  minutes  before 
satisfying  his  curiosity. 

There  was  nothing  peculiar  about  it — quite  a  fancy-piece. 


240  ROMANCE   OF  STUDENT   LIFE. 

"No  such  thing." 

"  But,  my  dear  fellow,"  I  continued,  "  why  are  you 
so  particularly  curious  about  this  little  painting?  I  do 
not  see  any  thing  to  justify  your  stubborn  assertion  that 
it  is  not  a  fancy-sketch,  and  that  there  must  be  some 
story  connected  with  it.  With  what  shrewd  apprecia- 
tion you  take  in  the  whole  group !  A  vine-growing 
country,  for  the  vineyards  extend  in  every  direction, 
almost  surrounding  the  old  chapel,  over  whose  entrance 
is  carved  in  wood  an  image  of  the  patron  saint.  The 
doors  are  open,  and  around  them  still  linger  two  or  three 
old  people  and  a  few  children,  while  the  solitary  figure 
on  this  side,  you  maintain,  bears  a  positive  unmistakable 
likeness  to  me !  How  ridiculous  this  idea  of  yours : 
really,  you  are  carrying  your  discrimination  quite  too 
far.  You  will  not  give  it  up  ?  Ah,  the  picture  again 
diverts  you.  The  foreground  embraces  a  gay  company  ; 
evidently  a  wedding-party ;  rustical,  to  be  sure,  but  so 
much  the  more  charming.  How  very  joyous  seems  the 
occasion " 

"  '  Fancy-piece'  —  nonsense !"  interrupted  Partridge. 
"  Look  at  the  bride :  no  painter  nowadays  could  limn 
that  face  and  form  from  his  imagination,  nor  pourtray 
the  blissful  satisfaction  which  beams  in  the  manly  coun- 
tenance of  the  groom.  There  is  an  evident  truthfulness 
in  the  grouping,  in  the  portraits,  in  the  expression  of  each 


PARTRIDGE   is   INQUISITIVE.  241 

person,  in  the  careful  attention  paid  to  details,  which 
cannot  deceive  me.  The  story — the  story — let  us  have 
that !" 

"Positively  there  is  none.  Still,  if  affairs  had  taken 
another  turn — thank  God  they  did  not ;  but  as  it  is,  there 
is  no  tale  of  blasted  hopes  nor  of  broken  hearts,  nor 
of  untimely  sorrows  which  are  only  quenched  in  death. 
Nothing  of  these.  You  are  still  not  satisfied  ?  You  ask 
for  the  merest  explanation  of  the  scene ;  that  will  content 
you.  Well,  perhaps  for  once  I  may  act  the  hero;  you 
have  all  told  your  stories ;  why  may  not  I  tell  mine  ?  Sit 
down,  my  dear  boy — have  patience,  Franz.  Silence  !  I 
am  going  to  begin. 

tnq  nf  Mm  Ifotet. 

AMONG  the  numerous  Passages  which  so  frequently 
connect  one  street  with  another  in  the  finer  parts  of  Paris, 
and  which,  as  you  know,  are  adorned  on  each  side  with 
exquisite  little  shops,  containing  every  thing  in  the  way 
of  vendibles  that  can  be  made  attractive,  the  Passage  des 
Panoramas,  Franz  and  I  being  judges,  is  the  one  most 
attractive,  as  well  as  most  frequented,  not  only  by  the 
fashionables  of  the  city,  but  by  the  strangers  who  con- 
gregate here.  The  significant  words,  "English  spoken" 

placarded   here   and  there,   draw  to  the  spot  many   of 

11 


242     ROMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

the  subjects  of  la  perfide  Albion,  who,  while  they  will 
not  condescend  to  learn  the  "miserable  language,"  can 
scarcely  do  without  French  gloves  and  French  shoes, 
and,  I  might  add,  French  every  thing.  Now,  my  friend, 
I  do  not  affirm  that  the  English  tongue  is  spoken  in  all 
its  purity  at  the  places  where  this  magic  sign  is  ex- 
hibited; on  the  contrary,  I  am  sorry  to  bear  witness 
that  often  it  is  positively  a  false  pretence,  where,  for 
example,  the  speaking  of  English  is  confined  to  "What 
you  want,  sir1?"  which  being  delivered,  the  pretty  gri- 
sette  trusts  entirely  to  her  ready  wit  in  interpreting  looks 
and  gestures,  and  to  her  power  to  interest  the  starched, 
high-collared,  precise,  and  generally  verdant  John.  As 
I  have  always  adhered  to  the  plan  we  laid  down  when 
we  first  came  to  Paris,  I  abstained  from  taking  ad- 
vantage of  these  little  helps  to  the  English  purchaser, 
especially  as  by  so  doing  I  obtained  what  I  wanted  at 
half  the  price  which  had  to  be  paid  where  the  article 
was  served  in  our  vernacular.  However,  on  one  occasion, 
I  broke  over  this  sensible  regulation.  I  went  out  one 
morning  by  myself,  leaving  Franz  employed  at  his  easel. 
Happening  to  stroll  through  the  aforesaid  Passage,  I  ob- 
served, in  one  of  the  finest  boutiques,  the  loveliest  creature, 
t  seemed  to  me,  I  ever  beheld.  Do  not  suppose  this  was 
alone  sufficient  to  draw  me  in.  It  is  an  every-day  occur- 
rence, as  you  well  know,  this  chancing  on  the  "  most  beau- 


MARIE   LAFOKET.  243 

tiful."  But,  in  the  first  place,  the  young  girl  was  evidently 
fresh  from  the  country.  She  knew  nothing  of  her  present 
occupation ;  she  was  not  awkward,  she  could  not  be  awk- 
ward, yet  she  did  not  seem  at  home  in  her  new  Parisian 
costume.  She  looked  melancholy ;  in  short,  I  was  touched 
by  her  appearance.  "  Another  victim  !"  I  said  to  myself; 
how  shocking  to  contemplate  this  poor  innocent  girl,  so 
simple  of  heart,  so  modest,  so  beautiful,  and  think  how 
soon  she  will  be  changed  into  a  Parisienne"  I  tried  to 
throw  off  the  idea :  "  it  was  but  the  old  story ;  the  country 
must  supply  the  town  ;  unfortunate,  but  necessary,  and  so 
forth :  this  young  person  appears  melancholy,  but  it  is 
only  la  maladie  du  pays  ;  she  will  soon  be  happy  enough. 
Madame  the  manager  treats  her  considerately ;  she  is  kind 
to  her ;  a  few  days,  and  she  will  have  her  smiles  again." 
But  days  not  a  few  passed,  and  no  smile  did  I  see. 
True,  she  was  becoming  acquainted  with  her  business ; 
she  had  learned  to  serve  those  who  came  with  readi- 
ness ;  she  seemed  to  have  made  rapid  progress  in  learning 
what  she  had  to  do :  but  no  smile,  no  "  pleased  alacrity," 
no  quickening  of  the  eye,  no  change  of  expression  when 
the  usual  compliment  was  rendered  by  gay  youth  or 
handsome  cavalier.  The  face  was  growing  longer — 
perhaps  more  strictly  beautiful ;  the  cheek  was  losing 
its  rose ;  the  eyes  appeared  deeper,  more  subdued  and 
thoughtful ;  indeed,  the  sight  of  her  (I  hardly  know 


244  ROMANCE   OF  STUDENT   LIFE. 

why,  but  1  found  myself  passing  the  place  daily)  began 
to  afflict  me.  Meanwhile,  young  men  were  crowding  the 
boutique ;  for  the  singular  beauty  of  the  "  charming 
grisette,"  her  immobility,  and  the  mystery  which  these 
created,  became  topics  of  conversation  among  the  young 
Parisian  " lions"  as  well  as  with  a  great  many  strangers. 
At  this  shop,  I  should  have  said,  were  exposed  the  words, 
"English  spoken;"  but  the  placard  had  only  lately  been 
posted,  and  I  wondered  who  was  the  proficient  in  our 
unaccommodating  tongue.  So  one  morning,  quite  early, 
that  I  might  have  the  fewer  interruptions,  I  sauntered 
leisurely  into  the  place,  and  inquired  of  the  first  one  I 
saw,  if  she  could  speak  English.  "What  you  please 
to  want,  sir?"  said  the  madame,  coming  up  to  me,  and 
articulating  with  difficulty.  I  asked  for  some  article 
not  usually  demanded,  in  order  to  test  her  knowledge. 
She  hesitated,  beckoned  my  heroine  to  her,  and,  leaving 
me  in  her  charge,  turned  to  serve  a  new-comer.  I 
repeated  my  request  in  English,  but  did  not  attempt  to 
explain  by  look  or  motion.  The  poor  girl  tried  hard 
to  divine  what  I  would  have;  she  bent  forward,  and 
I  again  repeated.  It  was  interesting  to  observe  how 
her  natural  intelligence  strove  to  interpret  what  I  was 
saying;  the  eyes  grew  full  of  meaning,  and  the  counte- 
nance was  roused  from  its  repose ;  but  it  would  not  do. 
I  had  carefully  avoided  using  any  ordinary  phrase;  and 


MARIE   LAFORET.  245 

as  1  stood  still  and  spoke  merely,  it  was  no  wonder 
tiiat  one  who  knew  not  a  syllable  of  the  language 
should  fail  to  understand  me.  "Pardon"  I  said;  "I 
thought  some  person  here — (pointing  to  the  placard) — 
spoke  English."  The  girl  turned  with  a  distressed  look 
to  the  madame,  but  she  was  busily  engaged  with  her  cus- 
tomer. Other  grisettes  there  were,  but  my  attendant 
made  no  appeal  to  them.  "Monsieur"  she  finally  said. 
" je  crains  qu?on  parle  bien  mal  f  Anglais"  This  was 
uttered  in  a  serious  tone,  and  with  an  entire  absence  of 
pleasantry.  Yet  with  what  a  graceful  smile  an  ordinary 
French  shop-girl  would  have  said  the  same  words,  and 
have  made  you  quite  satisfied  to  remain  and  purchase 
what3ver  she  chose  to  offer.  I  partly  turned  as  if  to 
depart,  although  I  had  no  such  intention,  when  the  young 
girl  placed  her  hand  on  a  package  of  gloves  that  lay 
on  the  case,  and  looked  at  me  inquiringly.  I  could 
perceive  this  was,  on  her  part,  an  act  of  mere  duty, 
lest  the  business  of  her  employer  should  seem  neglected. 
I  said  nothing,  but  allowed  her  to  select  me  a  pair. 
As  I  was  engaged  in  fitting  them,  I  cast  a  glance  at 
her.  The  look  she  gave  me  in  return  was  so  sad,  so 
heavy-hearted,  so  desolate,  that  1  could  not  avoid  saying 
to  her  in  her  own  tongue,  "You  seem  very  unhappy.' 
A  flush  passed  across  her  face,  a  tear  forced  its  way 
into  her  eyes,  and,  before  she  could  prevent  it,  dropped 


246      ROMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

on  her  cheeks  and  rolled  down  her  face.  Her  hand- 
kerchief was  quickly  applied,  and  she  was  calm  and 
imperturbable  as  before.  My  tone  was  one  not  of  gal- 
lantry, but  of  kindness,  and  it  had  taken  her  by  surprise. 
Yet  she  said  nothing — not  a  word  ;  but  she  looked  at 
me  a  moment  intently,  as  if  to  question  my  motive  in 
speaking  to  her ; .  but  whether  she  was  satisfied  of  it  or 
not,  I  could  not  tell. 

I  did  not  seek  to  draw  her  into  conversation,  but 
took  my  leave  as  soon  as  I  had  paid  for  my  purchase. 
I  need  not  detail  to  you,  my  dear  Partridge,  how  I 
finally  succeeded  in  obtaining  the  confidence  of  Marie 
Laforet — for  that  was  her  .name — and  which  put  me  in 
possession  of  her  simple  history.  The  young  creature 
saw  that  I  was  painfully  interested  for  her ;  besides, 
she  knew  not  a  soul  in  Paris  to  whom  she  could  trust 
her  sorrows.  It  seemed  as  if  she  would  have  died, 
could  she  not  have  spoken ;  and  yet  I  fear  you  will  be 
disappointed  when  I  tell  you  there  was  nothing  extra- 
ordinary in  her  story.  No  tale  of  a  faithless  lover  or 
of  cruel  parents,  of  afflictions,  or  of  harsh  treatment  by 
friends,  or  of  any  thing  melo-dramatic.  She  informed  me 
that  she  was  a  native  of  Burgundy,  in  the  department 
of  the  Saone  and  Loire,  and  lived  near  the  little  town 
of  Charolles  with  her  mother,  who  owned  a  small  farm 
of  ten  or  fifteen  acres,  nearly  all  of  which  was  vineyard. 


MARIE    LAFOKET.  247 

The  adjoining  plot  was  occupied  by  Maurice  Foligny 
and  his  mother,  who  were  their  nearest  neighbours. 
Maurice  was  two-and-twenty,  and  Marie  was  his  sweet- 
heart. Their  marriage  had  long  been  considered  a  settled 
affair,  not  only  between  the  lovers,  but  by  the  old  people 
themselves.  In  short,  it  was  to  take  place  at  the  coming 
vintage.  During  the  spring,  Marie's  mother  received  a 
visit  from  an  only  sister  who  had  gone  to  Paris  in  her 
youth,  married  a  respectable  shopkeeper,  and  succeeded, 
on  his  death,  to  his  establishment.  What  had  sent  her 
so  far  away  into  the  Departments  to  look  up  her  sister 
whom  she  had  not  seen  for  twenty-five  years,  was 
difficult  to  imagine.  Perhaps  she  felt  a  pride  in  dis- 
playing herself  and  her  finery  to  her  only  surviving 
relative,  and  in  acquainting  her  with  the  independent 
position  she  now  held  at  the  head  of  one  of  the  hand- 
somest shops  in  Paris ;  perhaps  the  motive  might  be 
attributed  to  that  instinctive  longing  for  one's  kindred 
which  steals  over  us  after  we  have  passed  the  boundary 
of  middle  life,  gathering  strength  year  by  year,  until 
with  the  aged  it  becomes  engrossing,  and  at  times  almost 
unendurable.  However  this  may  be,  Madame  Duchamp 
— so  she  was  designated — actually  arrived  and  took  up 
her  quarters  at  the  little  farmhouse.  Nothing  was  now 
heard  of  but  Paris,  Paris,  Paris !  No  other  place  in 
tne  universe  could  compare  with  it  Every  thing  out  of 


248      ROMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

it  was  actually  barbarous.  Marie,  to  be  sure,  had  a 
sweet  face,  was  well-shaped,  yet  what  a  fright  she  was 
when  disfigured  by  that  outre  dress !  and  when  poor 
Maurice  ventured  into  the  presence  of  Madame,  he  was 
treated  to  such  a  frigid  reception,  that  he  never  could 
be  persuaded  to  come  again;  and  Marie  herself  was 
overwhelmed  by  a  shower  of  ridicule  respecting  the 
appearance  of  her  lover.  To  shorten  the  tale,  Madame 
Duchamp  finally  prevailed  on  her  weak-minded  sister, 
despite  the  entreaties  and  protestations  both  of  Marie 
and  Maurice,  to  send  her  daughter  to  Paris,  that  she 
might  become  a  lady  under  the  care  and  supervision  of 
her  experienced  aunt.  The  troth  of  the  young  people 
was  by  no  means  broken ;  the  shrewd  Madame  thought 
this  to  be  quite  unnecessary.  She  supposed  Marie  to  be 
like  most  young  girls,  and  depended  on  her  forgetting 
her  lover  in  a  week  after  she  should  arrive  in  Paris, 
calculating  the  while  on  profiting  largely  by  increased 
sales  in  consequence  of  having  so  beautiful  a  person  in 
attendance.  At  the  same  time,  her  intentions  were  per- 
naps  well  meant;  for  she  expected,  without  doubt,  that 
her  niece  should  succeed  to  her  business,  and  inherit 
what  she  possessed.  Meanwhile,  poor  Marie  became 
utterly  wretched ;  as  I  have  described  to  you,  she  seemed 
slowly  to  wither  away.  She  had  been  four  months  in 
Paris ;  she  had  not  heard  from  Maurice,  nor  from  her 


MARIE   LAFOKET.  219 

mother,  except  through  Madame,  and  when  she  made 
these  disclosures  to  me,  was  ready  to  sink  into  absolute 
despair.  Poor,  forlorn  thing  that  she  was !  I  went  home 
revolving  the  matter  in  my  mind.  What  was  to  be 
done  1  What  could  /  do  1  I  finally  broke  the  subject 
to  our  friend  Franz  here :  strange  to  say,  up  to  this 
time  I  had  kept  the  affair  quite  to  myself.  Now  I 
wanted  some  one  to  consult  with,  and  I  knew  Franz 
would  appreciate  the  interest  I  took  in  the  business. 
The  result  was,  that  we  determined  to  make  an  incursion 
into  Burgundy,  work  our  way  quite  carelessly  into  the 
neighbourhood  of  Marie's  home,  and  inspect  the  situation 
of  things.  You  laugh,  my  dear  boy,  at  this  adventure — 
I  know  you  do ;  you  call  it  Quixotic.  I  cannot  help  it. 
I  never  commenced  a  journey  with  a  more  earnest  pur- 
pose or  a  more  cheerful  heart ;  and  if  there  was  a 
sprinkling  of  romance  in  it,  should  it  detract  from  the 
value  of  the  object  which  we  sought  to  compass  ? 
Obtaining  from  Marie  such  information  as  would  enable 
us  to  find  the  desired  locality  without  hinting  the  reason 
for  the  inquiry,  my  friend  and  I  set  off".  It  was  not  yet 
the  season  of  the  vintage,  but  the  vine  with  its  rich  clus- 
ters already  exhibited  a  luxuriant  picture.  We  passed 
rapidly  south,  'and  at  length  reached  Charolles.  Here 
our  reconnoisance  commenced.  We  had  no  difficulty  in 

finding  the  cottage  of  the  Widow  Laforet ;   and  one  after- 

11* 


250     KOMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

noon,  just  at  sunset,  we  entered  her  dwelling  ana 
for  a  draught  of  wine.  I  fancied  there  was  an  air  01' 
grief  and  of  loneliness  in  her  manner  quite  unnatural. 
She  desired  us  to  be  seated,  and  provided  for  us  the  best 
her  cottage  afforded.  Franz  undertook  to  explain  our 
movements.  We  were  from  Paris,  he  said,  and  were 
making  a  pleasure  tour  through  this  delightful  part  of 
France.  At  the  mention  of  Paris,  the  Widow  started, 
and  her  interest  in  what  my  friend  was  saying  evidently 
increased. 

"  From  Paris !"  she  exclaimed.  "  Then  you  must 
know  my  Marie !" 

I  could  not  help  smiling  at  the  poor  woman's  sim- 
plicity, but  Franz  preserved  his  gravity,  and  replied : 
"  Perhaps — with  whom  does  she  live  ?" 

"  Ah !"  responded  the  Widow  Laforet,  "  you  must 
have  seen  her ;  she  is  with  Madame  Duchamp ;  every 
body  knows  Madame" 

"What!"  demanded  my  friend,  "Madame  Duchamp, 
who  keeps  a  shop  in  the  Passage  des  Panoramas'?' 

"  The  very  same,  sir." 

"  And  what  did  you  say  was  the  name  of  your 
daughter — Madame  has  several  young  girls  with  her?" 

"  Marie,  sir :  indeed,  you  could  not  mistake  fiiy 
Marie.  You  would  know  her  among  a  thousand." 

"  She  must  mean  Marie  Laforet,"  said  Franz,  turning 


MARIE   LAFOKET.  251 

tn  TT0e  with  an  air  of  indifference,  as  he  proceeded  to 
light  his  meerschaum. 

"Ah,  mon  Diev, /"  cried  the  poor  widow;  "it  is, 
indeed,  my  own  petite  Marie.  I  was  certain  you  knew 
her.  Pray  tell  me  all  you  can  about  her.  She  must 
be  so  happv  in  beautiful  Paris,  with  every  thing  to  delight 
her." 

"/  doubt  if  it  is  the  same  person,"  said  Franz,  stiffly. 

"  But  I  tell  you  that  it  is,"  said  the  other,  with 
eagerness  ;  "  therefore  go  on ;  pray  go  on,  sir." 

"You  will  please  describe  your  daughter,"  said  my 
inexorable  friend. 

"  To  be  sure.  A  fine  shape,  just  my  height ;  face 
round,  fresh,  with  roses  on  her  cheeks ;  fair  skin ;  eyes 
— ah !  so  fine,  so  full,  so  gentle,  so  brown ;  hair,  a 
chestnut ;  and  her  whole- " 

"  Not  the  same  person,"  said  Franz,  again  turning  to 
me,  and  giving  a  puff  of  his  meerschaum. 

"But  it  is  —  I  know  that  it  is!"  cried  the  Widow ; 
tnere  cannot  be  two  Marie  Laforets  with  my  sister.  Ah ! 
1  have  forgotten :  Marie  is  so  much  altered,  so  much 
improved  in  every  way,  that  even  her  mother  cannot 
describe  her  correctly.  Just  as  my  sister  promised 
me — the  dear,  good  one !  But  you  will  tell  me  how 
she  looks  now,  just  to  please  a  foolish  old  woman — I 
know  you  will,  sir." 


252      ROMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

"  I  doubt  if  it  can  be  your  daughter,"  answered  Franz. 
"The  Marie  Laforet  whom  I  have  seen  is,  to  be  sure, 
about  your  height,  and  has  chestnut  hair  and  brown 
eyes  •  but  her  form  seems  to  be  wasted ;  her  face  is 
very  pale  and  thin ;  her  cheeks  are  colourless.  Oh,  no ! 
it  is  not  your  little  Marie;"  and  Franz  drew  some  fresh 
tobacco  from  his  pouch. 

The  Widow  burst  into  tears.  A  vision  of  the  true 
state  of  things  passed  over  her. 

It  was  now  my  turn.  "I  am  sure,"  said  I,  "that 
the  Marie  whom  we  know  is  the  daughter  of  our  enter- 
tainer ;  the  description  agrees  in  every  thing  except  in 
that  wherein  young  people  who  are  unhappy  are  most 
liable  to  change.  It  is  true,  that  her  cheeks  are  pale 
and  hollow,  and  that  she  seems  to  be  declining  in  health ; 
otherwise  it  answers  very  well,  depend  upon  it.  My 
good  woman,"  I  continued,  with  severity,  "you  should 
see  to  your  child." 

"  And  you,  too,  know  her !"  said  the  Widow  Laforet, 
not  heeding  my  reproach,  and  looking  up  through  her 
tears }  "  and  you  say  she  is  miserable  1  Yes,  miserable 
she  must  be — my  own  darling,  precious  Marie !  Why 
did  I  trust  her  away  from  me  ?  My  sister  should  have 
told  me  of  this.  I  suppose  she  hoped  there  would  be  a 
change  for  the  better.  Alas !  I  have  not  had  a  happy 
moment  since  she  left  me.  Ah,  what  will  poor  Maurice 


MAKIE   LAFOKET.  '.£53 

say  ?" — and  she  continued  her  lamentations  for  several 
minutes. 

"And  who  is  Maurice?"  inquired  Franz. 

"Maurice,  sir,  is  a  worthy  lad.  who  is  betrothed  to 
my  Marie.  They  were  to  be  married  the  coming  month ; 
but  this  visit  of  my  sister — alas !  alas !  it  has  ruined  us 
all." 

"  And  Maurice,"  said  I ;  "  how  does  he  bear  Marie's 
absence  1" 

"Indeed,  sir,  worse  than  any  of  us.  Not  a  word  has 
he  heard  from  her,  although  he  has  sent  her  a  great 
many  letters ;  but  he  does  not  blame  Marie,  not  he : — 
yet  he  does  nothing  but  curse  Madame  Duchamp — God 
forgive  him  ! — from  one  week's  end  to  another.  He  now 
declares  that  as  soon  as  the  vintage  is  gathered  he  will 
go  to  Paris.  Ah !  the  vintage  this  year  will  be  so  sad, 
when  we  were  promising  ourselves  so  much  pleasure !'' 

"  And  why  should  you  not  have  it  ?"  said  Franz 
abruptly,  starting  to  his  feet,  and  looking  the  Widow 
Laforet  full  in  the  face.  "What  is  there  to  prevent 
you  sending  to  Paris  for  Marie,  and  celebrating  her 
nuptials  with  Maurice  at  the  very  time  agreed  upon1?" 

"  But  my  sister,"  interposed  the  poor  woman,  timidly. 

"Diable!"  growled  Franz ;  "would  you  sacrifice  your 
own  flesh  and  blood,  body  and  soul,  for  fear  of  giving 
offence  to " 


254      ROMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 

The  sentence  was  cut  short  in  an  uncouth  German 
guttural,  which  I  should  not  care  to  have  translated. 

"  But  what  shall  I  do  ?"  continued  the  Widow  :  "  how 
shall  I  manage  it?  I  know  nothing  of  the  ways  of  the 
strange  folks  in  Paris,  and  if  I  sent  for  Marie,  my  sister 
would  not  let  her  go,  for  she  has  been  at  large  charges 
for  her  journey,  and  for  dresses,  and  I  know  not  for 
what  else.  Ah,  I  fear  it  cannot  be ;  yet  what  will  be- 
come of  thee,  ma  pelite?"  And  again  she  wept. 

It  was  now  evening,  and  we  were  urged  to  spend 
the  night  at  the  cottage.  Franz  shook  his  head,  spoke 
of  walking  on  to  Charolles,  but  I  overruled  him,  and 
he  accepted  the  proffered  hospitality.  We  were  served 
with  supper,  and  the  good  dame  plucked  for  us,  from 
her  early  fruitage,  clusters  of  delicious  grapes.  I  had 
sustained  my  part  thus  far  tolerably  well,  but  my  heart 
was  ready  to  burst  at  the  sight  of  this  poor  woman 
attempting  to  be  cheerful  while  she  prepared  our  en- 
tertainment. As  for  our  friend,  I  could  not  too  much 
admire  the  admirable  manner  with  which  he  had  man- 
aged the  interview.  In  the  course  of  the  evening  I 
undertook  to  explain  to  the  Widow  Laforet  the  dangers 
of  a  life  in  Paris  to  a  young  girl  situated  like  Marie, 
and  was  not  long  in  convincing  her  that  she  had  reason 
to  rejoice  that  the  atmosphere  of  the  city  agreed  so 
ill  with  her  child.  Franz  verified  all  I  said  by  an 


MAKIE   LAFORET.  255 

abrupt,  emphatic  assent,  so  that  before  we  retired,  her 
only  desire  was  to  get  her  daughter  away  from  such 
a  place  of  abominations.  Thus  far  our  plan  had  suc- 
ceeded admirably,  and  we  went  to  sleep  confident  and 
sanguine.  The  next  morning,  the  Widow  asked  our 
advice  as  to  the  best  means  of  getting  Marie  back  to 
her  home.  Her  only  embarrassment  was  how  to  brave 
her  sister's  displeasure,  and  how  to  make  amends  for 
the  expenses  she  had  incurred  for  her.  These,  to  us, 
were  minor  considerations,  for  I  knew  the  latter  to  be 
much  exaggerated  in  the  Widow's  imagination,  and  as 
to  the  former,  it  seemed,  under  the  circumstances,  of 
no  consequence  whatever. 

We  at  once  proposed  that  Maurice  should  be  sent 
for,  and  the  dame  accordingly  went  for  him.  As  it 
was  but  a  few  steps,  she  soon  returned,  accompanied 
by  Maurice  Foligny,  a  fine,  noble-looking  fellow,  of 
manly  bearing,  to  whom,  after  being  satisfied  of  his 
ready  perception  by  a  few  minutes'  conversation,  I 
frankly  stated  our  object  in  coming  into  the  neighoour- 
hood.  When  he  fully  understood  it,  he  grasped  the 
hands  of  each,  and,  without  uttering  a  word,  thus  silently 
expressed  his  thanks. 

I  need  not  recount  to  you  how  my  friend  and  I 
went  back  to  Paris  in  high  spirits,  bearing  a  letter 
froin  the  Widow  Laforet  to  Marie,  and  also  one  to 


250  ROMANCE   OF   STUDENT   LIFE. 

Madame  Duchamp,  the  latter  being  the  joint  production 
of  Franz  and  myself,  and  written  in  a  manner  best 
adapted  to  effect  our  object  without  giving  offence. 
Although  mild  and  conciliatory,  it  was  nevertheless  de- 
cisive as  to  Marie's  return,  on  the  ground  of  her  ill 
health  and  her  mother's  lonely  situation,  referring  also 
to  the  promise  of  Madame  Duchamp,  which  her  sister 
at  the  last  moment  recollected  to  mention  to  me,  that 
if,  after  a  few  months'  trial,  Marie  or  her  mother  were 
not  content  with  the  arrangement,  the  young  girl  should 
be  sent  back.  I  believe  there  was  also  a  letter  from 
Maurice  to  his  betrothed,  but  as  this  is  a  point  of  little 
consequence,  I  will  not  speak  positively. 

The  end  of  the  whole  business  you  may  guess  by 
this  painting  about  which  you  were  so  inquisitive. 
Madame  did  not  prove  as  obstinate  as  was  expected. 
The  fact  is,  she  was  pretty  well  convinced  that  Marie 
would  never  adapt  herself  to  her  new  life,  and  con- 
sequently that  the  speculation  was  a  failure ;  for,  as  the 
poor  girl's  health  began  to  droop,  even  her  mysterious 
demeanour  ceased  to  attract  attention.  So  she  was 
sent  home  without  more  delay.  The  only  astonishing 
part  of  the  history  is,  how  suddenly  she  recovered  her 
health,  her  gayety,  her  plumpness,  her  colour,  and  the 
rich  brown  of  her  eyes,  which  had  become  so  light 
and  dull. 


MARIE   LAFORET.  257 

The  next  month  came ;  we  had  pledged  ourselves — 
Fran/  and  I — to  be  present;  and  in  the  very  hey- 
day of  the  vintage,  attended  by  a  joyous  company, 
Maurice  and  Marie  were  united  in  the  little  chapel 
which  you  see  here;  after  which  followed  a  dance  upon 
the  green,  and  a  world  of  merrymaking.  Our  friend 
Franz  seized  the  occasion  to  exhibit  a  happy  proof  of 
his  art. 

"Sou  were  right,  my  dear  Partridge:  this  is  no  iancy- 
sketch. 


258  KOMANCE  OF  STUDENT  LIFE. 


CHAPTER   XIII. 

PREFACE     FOR     CONCLUSION. 

"Tins  will  do,  perhaps,"  said  the  literary  friend  to 
wnoni  I  submitted  the  foregoing  pages;  "but  you  have 
omitted  one  very  important  thing." 

"  What  ?" 

"The  preface!" 

"I  hate  prefaces." 

"That  may  be;  but  I  assure  you  the  preface  is  as 
essential  as  the  book." 

"How  so?" 

"  It  enables  the  reader  to  learn  the  scope  and  object 
of  the  work." 

"  Can  these  not  be  discovered  in  the  perusal  of  it?" 

"  It  is  very  doubtful.  But  this  is  not  all :  if  one  has 
a  good  preface,  the  critics  can  generally  manage  to  get 
up  an  article  without  having  to  wade  through  the  volume ; 
and  that,  you  know,  is  always  a  great  recommendation 
for  them.  Indeed,  I  assure  you,  it  is  absolutely  necessary 


PREFACE  FOR  CONCLUSION.      259 

for  you  to  state  in  a  preface  the  purpose  you  had  in 
view  in  publishing  your  volume." 

"What  if  I  had  none?" 

"That  is  quite  ridiculous.  Every  body  nowadays 
writes  with  a  design;  story  is  the  great  medium  for 
disseminating  theories,  philosophies,  moralities " 

"And  (interrupting)  absurdities  generally." 

"  You  trifle.  I  was  about  to  say,  that  whoever  wishes 
to  address  the  public  in  support  of  a  favourite  opinion, 
employs  for  a  vehicle  dramatic  fiction.  I  have  no  doubt 
that  very  soon  our  clergymen  will  preach  romances 
from  the  pulpit." 

"Well!" 

"  You   see,  then,  you  must  prepare  a  preface." 

"But  suppose  I  had  no  particular  theory  to  bring 
forward  in  this  book  of  mine?" 

"  Oh  !   you  had,  of  course." 

"  But  I  say,  suppose  I  had  not?" 

"  Then,  seriously,  I  advise  you  not  to  think  of  pub- 
lishing it." 

"Still,  it  contains  descriptions  of  different  phases  of 
life?" 

"  Of  no  sort  of  consequence." 

"  It  endeavours  to  pourtray  the  passions  and  emotion? 
of  the  heart?" 

"The  object!   the  object!" 


260      ROMANCE  OP  STUDENT  LIYK. 


"  It  records  actual  reminiscences- 


"My  friend,  it  is  all  very  well,  provided  you  have 
had  what  we  call  a  'persistent  purpose'  in  what  you 
have  been  doing." 

"Is  it  not  enough  that  I  have  written  because  I 
wanted  to  write1?  because  it  gave  me  pleasure?  be- 
cause it  afforded  me  agreeable  recreation  after  hours 
of  professional  labour1?" 

"  I  tell  you  it  is  not  enough ;  to  say  that,  would 
be  to  say  nothing.  I  warn  you,  for  the  lust  tmi«,  if 
you  do  not  follow  my  advice,  your  book  won't  SELL  !'• 

"What  if  it  does  not  sell;  have  I  not  had  the  en- 
joyment of  writing  it?" 

"  Oh,  indeed !  if  you  are  going  to  mount  the  high 
horse,  I  will  bid  you  good-morning.  I  should  like  to 
hear  what  your  publisher  will  say.  Upon  my  word, 
here  he  comes  !"  [Enter  Publisher.'] 

"  My  dear  sir,  I  just  stepped  in  to  inform  you  that 
we  are  waiting  for  your  preface." 

"What  did  I  tell  you?  You  will  believe  me  after 
this.  I  knew  you  would  be  forced  to  write  one.  But  I 
will  leave  you  together  to  settle  the  matter.  Adieu !" 
[Exit  Literary  Friend."] 

"I  had   decided  not  to  have   any  preface." 

"No  preface?" 

"  To  be  sure,  our  friend  who  has  just  left  advises  it." 


PREFACE  FOR  CONCLUSION.      2G1 

"He  is  a  very  judicious  person.  It  would  be  safe, 
I  am  sure,  to  follow  his  suggestion." 

"  I  suppose  so  ;  (submissively ;)  but  how  will  this 
please  you?  I  will  write  a  preface,  and  insert  it  for 
the  last  chapter." 

"That  strikes  me  as  rather  a  good  idea.  On  the 
whole,  I  think  it  will  take" 

"Done!" 


THE  END. 


By  the  Author  of  "Undercurrents." 


ST.  LEGER: 


BY  RICHARD  B.  KIMBALL 


New  edition,  1  Vol.  12mo.  Cloth.    $1.25. 


Extract  from  a  private  note  to  the  author  from 
WASHING-TON 


"  It  is  only  within  the  last  two  or  three  days  that  I  have  taken 
your  book  in  hand  ;  and  I  now  lay  it  down  after  having  been 
deeply  interested  and  delighted  with  the  perusal.  I  do  not  pre- 
tend to  criticise  ;  it  is  not  my  forte  :  but  I  can  feel  when  a  work 
is  good,  and  my  feelings  have  been  continually  aroused  and 
touched  in  the  course  of  perusing  your  pages,  while  they  are  all 
calculated  to  set  a  man  thinking.  In  a  word,  I  find  a  power  and 
beauty  in  your  work  and  a  fertility  of  invention  (almost  prodigal) 
which  convince  me  we  may  confidently  look  for  still  better  things 
at  your  hand.  *  * 

"  I  shall  be  most  happy  to  meet  you  and  testify  to  you  the  great 
esteem  and  regard  inspired  by  your  writings." 

Extracts  from  Notices  of  the  Press. 

"  A  Novel  sui-generis  in  the  annals  of  American  literature."  —  Phila.  Journal, 

"Abounding  in  the  most  thrilling  interest  in  narrative  and  in  maxim."  —  Metro- 
politan. 

"A  book  of  great  strength."  —  N.  Y.  Evening  Post. 

"  A  brilliant  book,  without  a  prototype  in  our  literature."—^.  Y.  Tribune. 

"A  book  of  power."  —  Boston  Post. 

u  A  very  extraordinary  book."  —  London  Morning  Post. 

"  Here,  there  and  everywhere,  the  author  of  'St.  Leger'  gives  exhibitions  of  passion 
ate  and  romantic  power  "  —  London  Athenotwm."  Tarn  over. 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE   DAY 


Is  the  new  Story  by  the  Author  of  St.  Leger, 

UKDEECUEEENTS 

A 

KOMANCE  OF  BUSINESS, 


"  One  of  the  able  and  eloquent  books  of  the  day." — Boston  Post. 


"  A  genuine  portraiture  of  the  experience  of  financial  embarrassmen 
in  its  relations  to  domestic  life  and  personal  character." — Transcript. 


"  Tor  sharp-cut  delineations  of  character  hardly  equalled  by  any  con 
temporaneous  writer." — New  York  Tribune. 


1  The  book  is  an  admirable  success." — Boston  Daily  Advertiser. 


"In  all  his  portraitures  the  writer  displays  a  power  second  onlytc 
bodily  reproduction." — Sunday  Mercury. 


"  Full  of  earnest  words  to  business  men." — New  York  Evening  Post. 


"  Every  line  reads  like  a  veritable  history  of  an  actual  life."  *  *  *  * 
"  The  characters  are  unmistakable  historical  pictures." — Courier. 

NEW   YOEK:    G.    P.    PUTNAM, 

532   BROADWAY.  Turnover. 


February,  1862. 


LIST 


CHOICE    BOOKS, 


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Attractive   and   Standard   Books, 

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532  BROADWAY,  New  York. 


The  New  Publications  in  Press  or  Just  Ready. 
THE 

LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

OF 

WASHINGTON     IRVING 

EDITED  BY  PIERRE  M.  IRVING. 

PROBABLY  FILLING  THREE  VOLUMES. 


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WITH  ABOUT  150  ORIGINAL  DESIGNS. 

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WASHINGTON  IRVING'S  WRITINGS. 


ALHAMBRA. 

By  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

A  Residence  in  the  celebrated  Moorish  palace,  the  "Alhambra," 
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ASTORIA  ; 


or,  Anecdotes  cf  an  Enterprise  beyond  the  Rocky  Mountains. 
By  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

"  It  is  a  book  to  put  in  your  library,  as  an  entertaining  very  well  writ- 
ten account  of  savage  life  on  a  most  extensive  scale" — REV.  SIDNEY 
SMITH. 

This  volume  describes  the  first  great  exploration*  of  the  Oregon  and 
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BRACEBRIDGE  HALL, 

or  the  Humourists.     By  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

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44  It  is  very  ill-natured,  however,  to  object  to  what  has  given  us  so  much 
pleasure." — Lose  JUFFBBY. 

CHRONICLES  of  the  CONQUEST  of  GRANADA. 

By  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

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"/<  has  superseded  all  further  necessity  for  poetry,  and,  unfortunately 
for  me,  for  history.'" — "W.  II.  FKESCOTT. 

COLUMBUS  AND  HIS   COMPANIONS. 

The  Life  and  Voyages  of  Christopher  Columhus :  to  which  are 
added  those  of  his  Companions.  By  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

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"In  treating  this  happy  and  splendid  subject,  Mr.  Irving  has  brought 
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"  The  noblest  monument  to  the  memory  of  Columbus.™ — "W.  II.  PRESCOTT. 

"It  will  supersede  all  other  works  on  the  subject,  and  never  be  itself  su- 
perseded."— LORD  JEFFREY. 

CRAYON  MISCELLANY. 

Comprising  a  Tour  on  the  Western  Prairies ;  Abbottsford  and 
Sir  Walter  Scott,  and  Newstead  Abbey  and  Lord  Byron. 
By  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

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DIEDRICH  KNICKERBOCKER'S 

HISTORY  OF  NEW  YORK,  from  the  beginning  of  the  World 
to  the  end  of  the  Dutch  Dynasty :  Containing,  among  many 
surprising  and  curious  matters,  the  Unutterable  Ponderings 
of  Walter  the  Doubter ;  the  Disastrous  Projects  of  William 
the  Testy ;  and  the  Chivalric  Achievements  of  Peter  the 
Headstrong — the  Three  Dutch  Governors  of  New  Amster- 
dam ;  being  the  only  Authentic  History  of  the  Times  that 
ever  hath  been  or  ever  will  be  published.  [By  WASHINGTON 
IRVING.] 

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1  TJie  most  excellently  jocose  History  of  New  York.  *  *  *  Our  sides 
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'•A  book  of  unwearying  pleasantry." — EDWABD  EVEKETT. 

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to  stand  alone  among  the  labors  of  men." — BLACKWOOD'S  MAGAZINE. 


MAHOMET  AND  HIS  SUCCESSORS. 

By  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

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OLIVER  GOLDSMITH:  a  BIOGRAPHY. 

By  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

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SALMAGUNDI. 

By  WILLIAM  IRVING,  JAMES  K.  PAULDING,  and  WASHING- 
TON IRVING. 

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"Full  of  entertainment,  with  an  infinite  variety  of  characters  and  cir- 
cumstances, and  with  that  amiable,  good-natured  wit  and  pathos" 
<£c.—  B.  H.  DANA. 

SKETCH  BOOK 

OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT. 
By  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

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SEE  the  Artist's  Edition  of  the  Sketch  Book."] 


"  It  is  positively  beautiful."—  SIE  "WALTER  SCOTT. 
"  Tlds  exquisite  miscellany."—  3.  G.  LOCKHAKT. 

TALES   OF  A  TRAVELLER. 

By  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

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WOLFERT'S  ROOST. 

By  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

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THE  LIFE  OF  GEORGE  WASHINGTON. 

By  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 
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WASHINGTON  IRVING'S  WHOLE  WORKS, 

Including  LIFE  OF  WASHINGTON,   SALMAGUNDI,   and  all  the 
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CULLEN  BRYANT. 

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G.    P.    PUTNAM  S    PUBLICATIONS. 


WASHINGTON  ILLUSTRATIONS. 

Comprising  102  Steel  Plates,  Proof-impressions  on  India  Pa- 
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NOTABLE    MEN    OF    THE    TIME. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES 

OF   THE 

MILITARY  &  NAVAL  LEADERS,  STATESMEN,  &  ORATORS, 

DISTINGUISHED  IN  THE  AMERICAN  CKISIS  OF  1861. 

Edited  by  FRANK  MOORE, 
"With.  Portraits   on.   Steel,  from.   Original   Sources. 


Heroes  and  Martyrs  Illustrated. 

"  A  work  of  very  attractive  interest  and  value  is  in  preparation  by  Mr.  G.  P.  POTT- 
NAM,  the  publisher  of  the  '  Rebellion  Record.1  In  a  series  of  numbers  handsomely 
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MEN  of  genius  and  promise — such  as  Greble,  Ellsworth,  Winthrop,  Lieut.  Putnam,  and 
others,  distinguished  by  character  and  talents  in  this  great  struggle— and  the  leading 
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HEROES,  MARTYRS,  &  NOTABLE  MEN,  1861-3. 


Among  the  Portraits  already  engraved,  or  in  progress,  are  the  following  : 

[Others  will  be  included  as  they  become  distinguished.] 

ABBAITAM  LINCOLN, 

Rev.  Dr.  BELLOWS, 

Brig.-Gen.  W.  T.  SHERMAN, 

WM.  II.  SEWARD,                 , 

Rev.  Dr.  TYNG, 

Brig.-Gen.  E.  D.  BAKER, 

SALMON  P.  CHASE, 

FRED.  LAW  OLMSTEAD. 

Brig.-Gen.  Louis  BLENKEB, 

SIMON  CAMERON, 



Brig.-Gen.  MANSFIELD, 

GIDEON  WELLES, 

ClIAKLES  SUMNEB, 

Capt.  WARD, 
Commodore  STRINGRAM, 

Brig.-Gen.  MCDOWELL, 
Brig.-Gen.  F.  W.  LANDEB, 

HENKY  WILSON, 
DANIEL  S.  DIOKFNSON, 

Commodore  DUPONT, 
Capt.  CHARLES  WILKES. 

Brig.-Gen.  F.  SIEGEL, 
Brig.-Gen.  T.  F.  MEAGHEK, 

EDWARD  ETEEETT, 
JOHN  P.  KENNEDY, 
JOHN  J.  CRITTENDEN, 
ANDREW  JOHNSON, 
JOSEPH  HOLT, 
PARSON  BROWNLOW 
GEO.  D.  PRENTICE, 
Gov.  WM.  SPRAGUE, 
Gov.  E.  D.  MORGAN, 
WM.  CULLEN  BRYANT, 
JOHN  LOTHROP  MOTLETV 
^BNDKLL  PHILLIPS, 

Lt-Gen.  WINFIELD  SCOTT, 
Maj.-Gen.  G.  B.  MCCLELLAN 
Maj.-Gen.  JOHN  E.  WOOL, 
Maj.-Gen.  H.  W.  HALLECK, 
Maj.-Gen.  J.  C.  FREMONT, 
Maj.-Gen.  N.  P.  BANKS, 
Maj.-Gen.  B.  F.  BUTLER, 
Maj.-Gen.  JOHN  A.  Dix, 
Brig.-Gen.  R.  ANDERSON, 
Brig.-Gen.  NATH.  LYON, 
Brig.-Gen.  W.  J.  ROSEORANS, 
Brig.-Gen.  A.  E.  BURNSIDE, 

Col.  E.  E.  ELLSWORTH, 
Col.  CORCORAN, 
Maj.  TIIEO.  WINTHBOP, 

Lieut.  SLEMMER, 
Lieut.  GREBLE, 
Lieut.  PUTNAM. 

JEFFERSON  DAVIS, 
A.  H.  STEPHENS, 
Rt.  Rev.  Bp.  POLK, 
P.  G.  T.  BEAUREGAED, 
ROBEKT  S.  GAUNETT. 

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REBELLION   RECORD, 

A  DIARY  OF  AMERICAN  EVENTS. 

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IN  SEPARATE  DIVISIONS. 

Eiited  by  FBANK  MOOBE,  Author  of  "Diary  of  American  Eevolution." 
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him  as  delightful  as  his  intellectual ;  and  they  are  visible  in  his  serious  as  well  as  lighter 
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all  in  Hood  is  that  warm  humanity  which  beats  in  all  his  writings.  His  is  no  ostentatious 
or  systematic  philanthropy ;  it  is  a  mild,  cheerful,  irrepressible  feeling,  as  innocent  and  ten- 
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"  Hood's  verso,  whether  serious  or  comic — whether  serene,  like  a  cloudless  autumn  even- 
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with  materials  for  thought." — D.  31.  Moir. 

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"The  master-spirit  of  modern  whim  and  drollery.1' — London  Athenaum. 

Ills  writings  will  "make  the  thoughtful  wiser,  and  the  unthinking  merrier."— JV«w 
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"  Views  A-Foot," 

The  first  volume  of  Bayard  Taylor's  Travels,  was  issued  in  1S47,  since  which  nearly  40,000 
copies  have  been  called  fur,  and  the  demand  for  tbis  and  tho  later  volumes  continues  to  be 
remarkably  largo  and  constant.  Probably  no  similar  publications  by  a  young  author 
•were  ever  received  with  such  general  favor,  or  reached  so  large  a  sale.  Excepting  only 
Kane's  Arctic  Voyages,  perhaps  no  other  American  book  of  Adventure  has  been  more 
popular  with  the  people  at  largo. 

In  accordance  with  suggestions  from  various  quarters,  and  to  meet  the  improved  stand- 
ard of  taste  mid  excellence  in  book-making,  the  publisher  will  usue  these  popular  volumes 
at  monthly  intervals,  printed  on  a  superior  tinted  paper,  with  vignette  engravings ;  and  taste- 
fully bound  in  vols.,  ranging  with  Irving  and  Hood.  Th«  volumes  will  be  issued  in  the 
following  order : 

HOME  AND  ABROAD.  CENTRAL  AFRICA. 

HOME  AND  ABROAD,  LANDS  OF  THE  SARACEN. 

(Second  Series— A  new  vol.)  INDIA,  CHINA,  AND  JAPAN. 

VIEWS  A-Foor.  NORTHERN  EUROPE. 

ELDORADO.  GREECE  AND  RUSSIA. 

A  ROMANCE  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE  (New.) 

New  York:   G-.  P.  PUTNAM,  532  Broadway. 

Subscriptions  received  ly  the  present  agents  for  the  Subscription  edition  of  Irving. 


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